


Back To The Place

by behindthec, RedOrchid



Series: PCCF [1]
Category: Bandom
Genre: M/M, post-cabin cabin fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-02-19
Updated: 2013-04-10
Packaged: 2017-12-07 21:39:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 92,715
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/753377
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/behindthec/pseuds/behindthec, https://archiveofourown.org/users/RedOrchid/pseuds/RedOrchid
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>Maybe that's what makes life interesting, the collision of endless questions and answers, and those precious moments of triumph when we can match the right ones together.</i>  Once upon a time, Panic went to a cabin in the mountains to write an album they never made. One night there, something happened that Ryan tried to forget. Two years later, he still hasn't.</p><p>Note: 90% of this fic was written by behindthec. I just fail at the whole "chapter by" thing /Red</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Dedication:** [](http://livinglifeloud.livejournal.com/profile)[**livinglifeloud**](http://livinglifeloud.livejournal.com/) , for letting me throw this at her piece by piece, for actually telling me when a line sucked, and for helping me with the most obstinate passage I've ever attempted to write. She has earned my firstborn, or something. Also, [](http://minus-four.livejournal.com/profile)[](http://minus-four.livejournal.com/)**minus_four** , because today is her birthday. :D Go give her ~~orgasms~~ love.

Some people say a single moment can change your life. Some people, but not Brendon.

It's much better suited to his brain -- the spastic, kaleidescopey way his thoughts tend to run -- for him to thrive on the belief that it's the _union_ of moments, the unpredictable domino effect of one after another, that truly shapes us.

If it -- _It_ , capital It -- had never happened two years ago in the middle of the north Nevada mountains one hour before sunset (first moment), no one would be knocking on Brendon's door in a minute and a half (second). But it did, and they will. The person will ask a question (third), and that moment will take a yes or a no. The moment before Brendon answers will be fourth, fifth will be when Brendon says yes, and from there, a thousand more will be set in place, one domino lined up after another. But the dominos don't just follow one path: there are swerves, options, places where the angle of the floor or the speed of the wind will shift them, determine which gets knocked over next. You don't know the end until the end, but you wouldn't get there without each one, each moment set in place. Take one moment out, and the entire journey is lost.

No single moments. A thousand, like a puzzle with no clear image until it's complete.

 

+++

 

_June 2009_

 

"Oh, you _fucker_ , you -- ! I fucking -- oh, you worthless cocksucking piece of _shit_!"

Shane giggles, fending off Brendon's ruthless, sideswiping shoulder attacks with one foot, fingers tightening around the controller. "Sore fucking loser, Jesus Christ!"

"I haven't lost yet, you assfucker!"

"You _wish_ I'd fuck your ass."

"You wish you still _could_."

"You make it sound like I lost my dick or something, I totally still could."

"Go for it. I hope you get syphilis."

"You have syphilis?!"

"No! Oh my god, _move!_ " Brendon shrieks uselessly, practically lying flat across the couch now with his legs flailing to distract Shane, laughing too hard for his clammy fingers to be of any use on the buttons, but he's not above playing dirty. Not now, not ever.

"Dude, your fucking foot's in my face, quit!" Shane shoves at him with his whole body and Brendon falls to the floor with a yelp, just as Shane's warrior leaps triumphantly across the screen, fists pumped in the air.

Brendon whimpers in defeat, fingers curling in dramatic agony against the living room rug as he lifts wide puppy eyes to Shane's. "Best out of twenty-seven?"

Shane laughs, sprawling out on the couch and leaving no room for Brendon. "You've totally lost it, man. The fuck were you _doing_ in California?"

"Um, recording an album?"

"And you couldn't shut your trap for one night to whip out the Xbox?"

Brendon huffs, hoisting himself back onto the sofa. "Maybe I was busy having _sex_."

"You weren't. You totally weren't. At all. You spent four months months in L.A. and didn't get one piece of ass."

"How, _how_ do you fucking know that?"

Shane smiles, and his eyes crinkle mischievously in the corners. "You would've told me. You always brag when you have sex. You even bragged when _we_ were having sex. _To me_."

"Well, I was good! You told me I was!"

"I told you _it_ was good," Shane corrects, pulling himself off the couch and starting for the kitchen. "I never said anything about you personally. Beer?"

"I hate you," Brendon declares conversationally. "Anyway, like I could've brought someone home anyway; god forbid anyone should disturb Ryan's zen. Swear to god, if you _breathe_ too loud while he's meditating, you're in for it."

"Are you serious?" Shane's voice carries from the kitchen.

"Dude! One time I tried to convince him I was practicing pranayama and he got all excited for a minute, till I started burping 'Camisado' and then he threw guitar picks at me until I left."

Shane's shoulders are shaking with laughter when he reappears, a beer in each hand. "The fuck is prana-whatever?"

"I dunno, some yoga breathing shit."

"Dude, what the fuck _happened_ to him?"

"I don't _know_ , man." Brendon sighs with the longsuffering shudder of one who's tolerated far too much in his short, innocent years. "Ashlee dragged him to one fucking yoga class and that was it. He ended up talking to the yogi for like, two hours after class, and he came home with like sixteen books written by hundred-year-old Indian dudes with missing teeth. He's gone totally vegan, won't even fucking smoke up anymore, he hasn't even had a beer in a _month_."

Shane's eyes expand monstrously, like those little foam animals you put in water and watch them quadruple in size. He swallows hard, the fizzing cold beer in his hand long forgotten. "Holy shit."

"Yeah."

"How does he... I mean..." The lines of Shane's forehead draw close together, like he's working out a really tough word problem in calculus. "How does he survive? A life without beer? Without _weed_?!"

Brendon nods dramatically. "It's no life at all."

Shane sighs. "He'll grow out of it. He always does. I mean, if you figure, it's the next logical step. Scene kid, circus freak, nineteenth century street urchin, gay hippie cowboy, John Lennon... zen master?"

Brendon grins around the mouth of his bottle, taking a long, indulgent swig. "What the hell's next?"

"I dunno..." Shane considers for a moment, his voice somewhere between awed and terrified. He's downing careful, conservative sips of his beer, as if only just realizing its value to his life force. "I can see him going on like, a Japanese geisha kick. He always loved the showy, girly stuff. And I bet he's been looking for an excuse to get back into make-up for years."

The doorbell rings suddenly, and Brendon's still laughing as he crosses the room. "Whatever, but the second he tries to get me in a kimono, I'm leaving the band."

He keeps one hand fondly wrapped around his beer and heaves the door open with the other, and speak of the motherfucking devil.

He's smiling a little shyly, shoulders slightly slumped under his dark blue v-neck tee from having his hands stuffed into the pockets of a pair of skinny... khakis? Brendon's always wondered if Ryan has this shit custom made, but he's never asked for fear the answer would actually be _yes_ , and then Brendon might really have to leave the band. For a second, Brendon's eyes settle automatically on the triangle of pale skin where the neckline of his shirt dips, circled with one of the giant beady necklaces he'd taken to wearing last summer and resurrected last month when he decided they were just New Agey enough for his liking.

"Hi," Ryan says.

Brendon smiles, but he isn't above the little prickle of guilt that zig-zags through him, all his earlier words still crisp in the air, and with the way Ryan's looking at him now, peaceful and smiley and devoid of pretension or agenda, Brendon can't help regret mocking him so freely, even in jest.

"Hi," he echoes. "What's up?"

"You gonna let me in?"

And just like that, with one cheekily raised eyebrow, the snark settles and all of Brendon's guilt evaporates. He rolls his eyes and swings the door open, stepping aside.

"You have a key, y'know."

Ryan shrugs. "I feel weird using it when you're home."

"Dude, that's the whole _point_. So I don't have to get off my ass and come to the door."

Ryan stares him down, but doesn't venture a comeback.

"Wanna beer?" Brendon offers, waggling his own suggestively in Ryan's face. Ryan eyes it for a moment, his pupils expanding even in the bright mid-morning sun pouring through the mass of windows, and for a second Brendon wonders if the guy's actually going to start drooling.

"Um." Ryan swallows hard, shaking his gaze away. "No. Thanks."

"'S'up, man," Shane calls, waving his half-empty bottle in greeting as he flicks through all the channels they never watch.

"Hey," Ryan smiles at him, but his attention is fast returned to Brendon. "Hey, um. Speaking of getting off your ass..."

"Whoa." Brendon takes a step back. "No. No way. You're not dragging me to your meditation group again. Last time I fell asleep and when I woke up some guy gave me a lecture about how I wasn't in tune with my third nipple or whatever."

" _Eye_ , Brendon, third _eye_ , Jesus Christ." Ryan rolls his eyes (all three of them, Brendon bets). "Would a little personal enlightenment really kill you?"

"Yes! I prefer to live in complete unawareness of my entire being."

"Well in that case, you're a master."

Brendon flips him off.

"That's not why I'm here," Ryan snaps defensively. "I just. I thought. Maybe."

"Maybe...?"

His fingers are tugging absently on the leather wrist cuffs wrapped around one forearm, gaze intent on their movement, but his eyes lock on Brendon's when he finally shrugs. "Do you want to go on a road trip?"

Brendon chuckles. "We're gonna be on the road in six weeks for like, the next year. Are you serious?"

"I just -- I don't know," he admits, his voice painfully deflated. "Not -- I mean, not really a road trip, but like. A trip. To a place?"

"...A secret magical place?"

"Your mom is a secret magical place, okay? Look, do you want to go or not?"

"I want to know where I'm going!"

"You'll find out when we get there!"

Brendon eyes him with every rightful suspicion, and Ryan's eyes narrow to match. Brendon purses his lips.

"Is this a retreat?"

"No."

"Will I have to sit in lotus position for four hours straight and focus on my breath?"

"No!"

"Can I bring weed?"

"If you can afford to lose any more brain cells, sure."

"Will there be showers?"

"What is this, twenty fucking questions? Yes, there's showers! Like you're gonna use 'em," he adds pointedly, taking a step back and wrinkling his nose.

"Whatever, you love my manly essence. So what about Spence? Oh, dude, is Jon flying in? Are we all going?"

"Um." Ryan scrunches into himself a little, shoulders creeping up toward his ears, and from some sixth Valdez sense, Brendon can feel Shane watching. "I thought, I mean, you and I haven't really spent much time together in awhile, just the two of us. I thought. Y'know. Maybe. Just us."

It doesn't happen often anymore, but sometimes Ryan just fucking walks into it, and all you can do is slam the door behind him and lock him in.

Brendon smirks. "Ross."

"Oh, don't _even_ , you're fucking twelve years old, Jesus -- "

"Are you taking me on a romantic getaway?!"

"Forget it." Ryan spins on his heel and starts for the door.

"Hey, hey, dude, no -- " Brendon lunges forward with surprising agility at this hour of the morning, with this many beers already behind him, and wraps a hand around Ryan's arm. It sets him back for a moment, feeling the tightly toned muscle of Ryan's bicep beneath his curled fingers, firmer than Brendon ever remembers it being. Fleetingly, he recalls all the rambling Ryan's done about the physical merits of yoga, most of which went in one ear, out the other, and down the toilet, but he might remember a mention or two about the whole strength-building part.

Brendon brushes it off, wills it from his thoughts, and softens his grip.

"No," he repeats. "No, I'll go. I want to."

Ryan looks phenomenally unconvinced, but his face unscrunches enough to consider the offer.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah," Brendon smiles. "Yeah, let's do it. When do you want to leave?"

Ryan smiles back. "My car's packed downstairs. Go shower."

Brendon snorts. "Like fuck we're taking your car. Go home, I'll pick you up in an hour."

Ryan turns fully toward him, one hand braced around the square edge of the door, the other balanced on his indignantly cocked hip. "The fuck is wrong with my car?"

"Um, right," Brendon pipes cheerfully. "You can't take a Mercedes on a road trip. It's like, a law. Your windows are tinted like, fucking _black_ , man, how am I supposed to sunbathe? You drive five below the speed limit and your GPS voice makes me feel like I'm in a porno. Should I go on?"

It's a few seconds of Ryan's hardcore glaring, leaving Brendon to plot his counter-argument, but Ryan only squeezes his lips into a tight line and huffs loudly through his nose.

"Fine. But I'm driving."

Fucker.

Brendon takes a long, luxurious moment to weigh the pros and cons. It's not a patience he often indulges, but this is serious business, and his precious little Audi is about the closest thing to a grandchild that his parents can hope to get from him, maybe ever. On one hand, if Ryan drives, they might actually get wherever they're going by the time they have to leave for tour next month. On the other hand, if Brendon relegates him to the passenger seat, every ten seconds Ryan'll be spouting criticism about the way Brendon holds the wheel or how his braking habits are inappropriately aggressive.

He sighs for effect, but he's at relative peace with his decision. "Fine."

Ryan smiles with a juvenile air of triumph, chin held high. "Pack a swimsuit."

Brendon smirks. "You wish."

 

+++

 

Brendon really needs to start making a list of all the ways in which his laziness, procrastination, and the general disorderliness of his existence have benefited the greater good. Then he can get it laminated and hang it on Ryan's fridge.

Take now, for instance. He's been back from California almost a week, still living out of his toiletries bag and suitcase, having never bothered to unpack, and it's about to pay off.

He still digs around in the mess, throwing out the crap he doesn't think he'll need (and by throwing out we mean tossing into a corner of his room and hoping the floor will go all amoebic and just absorb it after awhile). Most of it's still good, even if his toothbrush is looking a little worse for wear, but if Ryan's taking him someplace where fresh toothbrushes are not available, that's Ryan's problem.

Nothing really makes him stop and think until he gets to the twelve-pack of condoms he'd packed before leaving for L.A. The box remains sorely unopened, a callous reminder of his lack of sexy good times, and he turns it over in his hand, idly inspecting the expiration date.

"You _slut_ ," Shane's voice greets him from the doorway.

Brendon whips around, spotting his roommate molded against the doorframe, ankles and arms crossed, smirking at Brendon in that obnoxious, too-personal way you're only allowed to do when you've watched someone have an orgasm at your hand.

Brendon smirks back, equally justified. "What -- what?!"

Shane throws his head back and laughs, invading the room's space as he steps forward. "What is seriously going through your head right now, man? Scoring with Ross?"

"No!" he snaps too quickly. Shane needs to stop taking best friend lessons from Spencer; it's creepy. "I -- dude, we could be going anywhere! He could be taking me to _San Fransisco_. In which case I'm taking the giant box under the bathroom sink, come to think of it."

He's even on his way, taking the first step towards the hall, already lost in epic thoughts of pretty, pretty San Fran boys spread out on smooth, white hotel sheets, when Shane catches his arm, eyes wide.

"No way, that box stays. House rules."

Brendon rolls his eyes, dropping his own pitiful little box of Trojans back into his bag. "Whatever."

"Bren."

"Yeah, yeah, I know, no blowjobs without condoms, cell phone on at all times, no dark alleys, no joints unless I've rolled it myself, never give anyone money for a cab or I could get arrested for soliciting prostitution and this time you're not bailing me out -- "

"Bren," Shane's chuckling, his face gentle when Brendon looks up, instantly softening Brendon's own tense annoyance; sometimes he forgets Shane's parental tendencies are only enforced out of love. "I mean, yeah, but that's not what I was gonna say."

"Then what?"

Shane watches him and somehow Brendon knows instantly what he's going to say, because his eyes are the same sharp, swirling blue-green they were two summers ago, when Brendon came home from the cabin and cried in his lap for an hour, and all Shane had had to say was, "I know, man. I know," and Brendon knew everything would be okay.

Only now, Shane looks worried, like he's not so sure.

"Just because he hasn't said anything doesn't mean he doesn't remember."

It's so, so vague to anyone outside their heads, their secrets, the all-knowing line where their eyes connect, and Brendon only wishes he could claim ignorance.

Instead, he shrugs, falling quietly defensive as he always does when he's lacking a strong argument. "And? It happened, so what?"

Shane sighs. "Just be careful."

Brendon sighs right back, working it into fully theatric. "Of what, Shane? I'm not a fucking kid."

Shane recoils at the hint of attack, and Brendon hates that, hates that Shane never fights back. Brendon's used to inner-band discord, the relentless opinions and stubbornness of Ryan and Spencer, the way they all thrive on conflict, and while Jon doesn't let any diva drama suck him in, he isn't afraid to stand up for himself. Shane's the opposite, will sit back and keep the peace, even at his own expense. Brendon feels a twinge of guilt, because fighting with Shane is like kicking a puppy.

"I just," Shane starts, "I feel like... if you fall again, it would be a lot harder to get up this time."

Their eyes speak for awhile, and Brendon hopes his apology is read, because he doesn't quite know how to say it.

"I won't," he says finally. "I won't fall unless there's someone to catch me."

 

+++

 

One thing Brendon loves about road trips is the way you can have the sun beating down on you for hours, and still adjust the temperature inside to whatever you need to compensate. It makes him feel warm and nestled and safe, scrunched into the passenger side with his feet up on the seat, his shoes kicked to the floor, forehead pressed to the cool glass of the window. It's his own window, so he doesn't feel bad gunking it up with fingerprints or sweat, but the car still doesn't feel like his, not without being in the driver's seat. But with Ryan so close, he doesn't mind. It feels like theirs, and that's better.

He looks over at Ryan, one hand on the wheel and one on the gearshift, head bobbing contentedly as Hot Fuss</a> pumps through the speakers, warm and familiar like old times. It reminds him of early fame and easy nights crammed cozily into the back lounge of their first bus, and Brendon has a tiny flash of memory: slow-dancing backstage with Ryan, right in the middle of an interview, giggling and tripping over each other's feet as they sang along to this very [song](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=k6ERe23kSBM), too consumed by post-show energy to behave like adults.

Ryan has this thing where he only sings along to specific parts of songs, the same parts each time, because his voice sounds good on those parts or just because he likes them, regardless of how his voice sounds. He does sound good sometimes, always sharp and badass when he spits out " _direction to perfection_ ," head bouncing forcefully to the rhythm. He's always had a shitty falsetto, but he can never resist jumping in to catch some of the fever when the bridge escalates. Every time, he looks to Brendon, making sure Brendon's going to join him, won't leave him singing all alone, and Brendon indulges him even now, his voice effected and shrieky and overpowering ("You'll never, _ever_ sing back-up," Patrick told him last year, laughing), as he draws out the last syllable of, " _I'm not a soldierrrrrrr!_ " Underneath it, he hears Ryan's voice break, falling into laughter, his eyes sparkling as he and Brendon catch each other's gaze, grinning.

Warmed by the impromptu performance, he turns back to the window, lips still stretched wide as he lets his forehead connect with the cold relief of the glass. The empty fields zip by in an endless, wheat-colored blur as they merge from I-15 onto Highway 93, and Brendon lets his eyelids drop, placid and sleepy from the lack of visual stimulation. He can smell Ryan's cologne fusing with the rest of the car's smells, and it's. It's good. It makes the car feel like home instead of a car.

Or maybe it's just Ryan that feels like home.

 

+++

 

"Are we there yet?"

"No."

"Are we there yet?"

"Brendon."

"Dude, this is. Like. Where the hell are we _going_? There's nothing up this way for like, the rest of the country! Except the cabin."

Ryan is audibly silent.

"Oh my god, tell me!"

"No."

"You suck."

"Mm-hmm. I'm stopping. And you'd better pee, 'cause I'm not stopping again."

Between Shane and Ryan, Brendon will never need his _actual_ parents ever again.

Brendon has long held the belief that convenience stores are anything but. They never have the drink he wants at that given moment, a five-minute visit has him smelling like stale cigarettes, gasoline, and packaged snack foods, and he's pretty sure the bathrooms carry at least eighteen different diseases somewhere in their depths.

He wasn't always such a snob. Touring with Ryan Ross for five years and tuning out weekly convenience store diatribes have brainwashed him.

But this isn't touring, and it's only the conscious thought of it that makes him suddenly realize how vastly different this is. Being "on the road," he's learning for the first time, is not a sweeping generalization defined by cramped bunks, deadlines, rest stop time limits, wake-up calls, deafening crowds, and a working diet of gas station food (for lack of a more accurate term). Ryan's quieter, not literally, because he's been talking more as a matter of fact, mouth running a mile a minute when Brendon gets him going on a topic he loves. But quieter inside, it seems. Brendon knows they all live for touring, the stress and the mess, but everyone needs a break, and they've found it -- or maybe it found them. The tense gait that tends to take hold of Ryan on tour is gone like it never existed, his movements and posture loose and free, his smiles effortless to coax and easy to keep. Even in the few hours of travel, the difference has been tangible. No agenda, no schedules, no rules, and it shows.

Just them, whatever they want.

"Seriously?"

" _Whatever we want_ , Ross."

"You're seriously buying a Nevada magnet?"

"Dude, yes." Brendon spins the tall cylinder of magnets on display near the cash register, skipping his fingers over the various sizes and shapes. "How many people have a magnet from their own state?"

"...No one, Brendon."

"Exactly." He plucks a large, Vegas-themed one from the hoard and smiles brightly, slapping it down on the counter.

"Oh, we need water bottles," Ryan adds.

"Yeah. And chips."

"Not the barbeque shit."

"Fine, no salt and vinegar."

"Then no chips."

Brendon sighs.

The elderly Pakistani gentleman behind the counter is watching the two of them with a hawk's eye, gaze darting between them before suddenly announcing, "We have many fruit juices."

Both boys redirect their eyes to his, blinking comically.

"And gourmet chocolates!" he pipes up, thrilled to have their attention.

"Um, I think we're good, thanks," Brendon smiles.

"We also have condoms."

Brendon's eyes widen, scanning over to Ryan, who looks like he's biting the inside of his mouth to keep from laughing.

"Yeah, uh." Brendon turns back to the man. "I don't think we need those."

The man's face sobers. "You young boys have to be safe, nowadays."

Brendon turns his whole body around to face Ryan, keeping himself angled deliberately away from the man, having fallen into a trembling rush of silent giggles.

Ryan bites back his own amusement -- hard, judging by the plump red flush in his lower lip, and turns to the man. "Oh, we're safe," he assures him with that odd sort of deadpan cheerfulness he gets when he's trying to be amusing. "We even have a bodyguard."

Brendon runs out of the store and doubles over in front of the giant icebox, breath lost in his laughter.

Ryan emerges a moment later after he's paid for and bagged their items, falling into giggles as soon as the door's shut behind him. He grabs Brendon's arm and they race back to the car across the parking lot, hand in hand and tripping over themselves like they're running from the law, like they have a hundred secrets, like they're kids without parents.

Brendon feels Ryan's palm tucked against his, a solid reality of pulsing warmth, and he thinks this -- this moment, right here -- is why he's alive.

 

+++

 

"So I've concluded -- " Brendon starts, and it's a sentence on its own for dramatic effect. Ryan mumbles "Oh, lord" under his breath and it's all the acknolwedgment Brendon needs. " -- That you're taking me to Montana. And we're going to like, a dude ranch, do those even exist anymore? And I'll meet this gorgeous cowboy and I'll leave the band to become a farmer, and I'll get back that sweet tan I had when I was working with my dad. It's all part of your plan to get rid of me."

"Right. Which is why I made you bring your guitar."

"Well how else am I gonna seduce the cowboy?"

"...Brendon?"

"Hm."

"You're a whore."

Though affectionately stated, as potentially last words Ryan probably would've chosen different ones, had he been able to anticipate the sudden, jarring jolt of the car, the tilt as it jerks roughly to the side at seventy miles an hour, and the screeching of the wheel dragging over the pavement, the back passenger-side tire blown to bits.

Ryan slams on the brakes, his mouth dropping in shock and one arm shooting instinctively across Brendon's chest, holding him in place as the car hobbles to a stop on the shoulder of the highway.

"You okay?" Ryan asks, breathless, and Brendon nods. "Fucking _hell._ "

They both clamber out of the car to inspect the damage, to which Ryan responds with a string of filthy, creative curses, one hand carding angrily through his hair. Brendon whips out his cell, but Spencer's insistence on programming AAA into their phones isn't going to save them now.

" _Fuck_ ," he hisses, waiting for Ryan to look up. "We don't have any fucking signal out here."

Ryan rolls his eyes. "I can't even see what we ran over. When's the last time you had your tires serviced?"

"Um." Brendon wrinkles his nose, his skin prickling in the late afternoon heat. "I... don't know?"

"Christ, you're so fucking helpless," Ryan sighs, hooking his fingers under the waistband of his v-neck and peeling it off over his head, leaving his hair delightfully out of place, before bunching it up and tossing it back into the car.

Brendon watches him warily, too distracted by their plight to let his eyes linger over the long planes of Ryan's torso, the way the muscles in his back and shoulders shift as he...

Right. Too distracted.

Brendon huffs. "If you really wanna lure passing cars, we should be making out."

If Ryan rolled his eyes any higher, they'd get stuck up there.

"Open your trunk," Ryan orders, and when Brendon does, Ryan doesn't waste a moment digging around, dumping their luggage on the ground as he works to uncover the spare lodged at the bottom.

Brendon smiles. "You have _got_ to be kidding me."

"Brendon, shut up, just please tell me you've got a car jack in here."

"Um -- yeah, it's in the back."

"Tire iron?"

"Underneath the -- yeah."

Ryan digs out the items without a word, arranging them on the hot, gravely pavement and turning to face Brendon, hands on his hips. A fine glaze of sweat is already blossoming across his skin, his face flushed and eyes squinty from the blaze of sun, and as inexplicably sexy as it is, Brendon still has to laugh.

"You gonna change a tire, Ross?"

Ryan's eyes narrow even further, and Brendon wonders how he can even see out of them. "Unless you'd rather do it?"

"I don't fucking know how to change a tire, dude!" Brendon laughs. "And if _I_ don't, I'm pretty sure you don't."

Ryan rolls his eyes again, dropping down to the ground. "My dad wasn't good for much," he says suddenly, voice strained as he works to remove the hubcap. "But he had a thing for cars, used to be a mechanic before he met my mom. For a couple summers he thought he'd try the whole father-son bonding thing. Didn't really stick, but I can put together a '69 Corvette from nothing but a pile of parts so don't give me any shit or I'll take this pretentious piece of crap apart and let _you_ put it back together, and don't think I won't."

Brendon doesn't give him any shit.

Brendon doesn't do much of anything but stand with his jaw hanging open and wonder how he never knew this, watching Ryan trudge through the process and trying to remember all the reasons he made himself get over Ryan and how the hell he did it (if he ever did at all). But with Ryan bent over like he is, shirtless and sweaty, hands etched with black grease as the tendons in his arms flex under the exertion, fingers curled strong and tight around the base of the tire iron, Brendon unsurprisingly comes up blank.

He's so blissfully blank that he barely notices the car pulling up behind them until the driver's walking toward him, too close to ignore.

Brendon turns his head and freezes, because holy fuck, he's totally seen this clip on PornoTube.

Brendon doesn't even know where to look: the guy's blinding white smile, his eyes (bluer than Spencer's and doubly intense), the blond curls falling messily into his face, or the outline of his six-pack beneath his practically translucent wife-beater.

"Hi," he says in greeting, gaze locked to Brendon's. Brendon can almost hear Ryan's eyes rolling. "You guys need some help?"

"Yeah," Brendon answers automatically, his voice rough and breathy. "We do."

"No, we _don't_ ," Ryan snaps from the ground, but no one seems to notice he's there.

"I'm Troy," the guy offers, still smiling bright as he extends his hand, and Brendon takes it, relishing the familiar little jump below his waist when Troy's fingers squeeze his, firm and strong and filled with intent.

"Brendon," he replies, feeling his body descend into seduction autopilot, eyes darkening and smile stretching slowly, crooked to just the right degree with a side of smirk thrown in for good measure.

It has no small effect, and Troy bites his lip, eyes never leaving Brendon's. "You guys seem to be a little... screwed."

"Totally screwed," Brendon breathes.

"We're fucking _fine_ , thanks," Ryan interjects. Brendon makes a mental note to murder him later. The highway's abandoned; there's a million places he could hide the body.

"You sure you don't need any help?" Troy offers, still staring straight at Brendon. "I live in town, I could... give you a ride."

Brendon's smile explodes (and really, his dick isn't too far behind).

"Finished," Ryan announces in a colorless monotone, casually throwing his supplies back into the trunk along with the afflicted tire and wiping his hands on his pants.

"Uh-huh," Brendon acknowledges absently.

"Listen," Troy says, digging into his pocket and emerging with a crumpled receipt and a stub of a pencil. "If you're gonna be in town for awhile, maybe we could hang out or something."

Brendon tries to agree in a sexy, coherent manner, but it comes out close to "Mm, uh-hmm," with a manic little nod as he watches Troy scribble a few digits onto the back of the receipt before pressing it into Brendon's hand, closing his fingers around Brendon's fist. Ryan is at once all too present, appearing ninja-like out of nowhere to plaster himself against Brendon's side, one arm snaking tightly around Brendon's waist.

"Ready to go, honey?"

Brendon feels the blood freeze in his veins, halting in its rapid rush of hormonal excitement as he and Troy both direct their eyes to Ryan for the first time, matching disappointment in each.

Ryan smiles, toothy and sugary-sweet.

"Um -- I -- sorry," Troy mutters, turning and stalking back to his car, head hung low with disappointment. Brendon watches him drive away, his mouth gawking as the sizzling red sports car speeds off into the distance. He huffs once, twice, running a desperate search for words, but his brain comes up empty and Brendon actually stamps his foot.

" _Ryan_! You fucking _cockblocker_ , what the fuck?!"

Settling for another eye roll, Ryan simply stomps back to the driver's side and snatches his t-shirt from the seat. "Just get in."

But Brendon's pissed, and he doesn't want to follow orders, especially not when it's his own damn car involved, which he bought with his own money, from his own talents and hard work, and he's totally an adult here and he'll be damned if Ryan's going to make him feel otherwise. He takes a few steadying breaths by the side of the car before allowing himself to crawl inside and shut his door.

It's just. It's not fucking fair. Ryan doesn't get to dictate where Brendon puts his dick, especially not after half a dozen years, subconsciously or not, of making damn sure Brendon never put it anywhere near him. It's none of Ryan's fucking business -- whether or not Brendon wishes it were.

For a few minutes they drive in silence, slower than before to accommodate the smaller, weaker tire, and Brendon tries to even out the tension in his face, because he can be an adult about this, he can. He doesn't want a fight this early in their... whatever this trip is, and he trusts Ryan enough to explain when he's ready.

Unless Ryan's just being a bitch, which is not a possibility Brendon's willing to rule out.

"I'm sorry," Ryan finally says, his voice small and genuine.

Brendon turns to watch Ryan's profile, sharply silhouetted in the sun's long, lazy rays. "Why'd you do it?"

"Dude, he was like... all over you!"

"Um, yeah, did you notice I kind of really didn't mind?"

Ryan sighs. "He was a fucking loser, Brendon. A total slut; he was shameless. He's probably got like five different STDs."

Brendon pulls a deep breath into his lungs, but it does little to calm him. "Right. Okay. Hot friendly guy finds me fuckable, so obviously that must mean there's something wrong with him."

"That's not what I meant, Jesus!"

"Then what?!"

"I just -- " He sighs louder, as if that's supposed to better make his point. "I got... a vibe. I don't know. He just. He seemed... shallow. I just. You deserve better. Someone... real."

Brendon rolls his eyes, but it's only for his defense. Inside, he can feel something warm bubbling in his stomach, something that's laid dormant a long time, long enough to catch him off guard.

"Yeah, well," he mumbles, picking at a loose thread from a rip in his jeans, "if you hadn't noticed, I'm kind of shit at relationships. I'll settle for a shallow fuck just fine, thanks."

"I'm sorry," Ryan repeats. "I shouldn't have -- I'm sorry. I just. I worry about you. I can't help it."

"It's okay."

Ryan's quiet for a moment, but he's clearly thinking hard, weighing some option in his mind, and it's louder than if there were words. "Just -- " he finally stutters, "look, it's not too late. Call him and tell him I was an ass if you want."

Brendon shrugs. "Doesn't matter, not like I'm gonna see him again. God only knows where we're going."

Ryan's frame deflates a bit in his seat, but he doesn't look away from the road. It's that loud silence again, and Brendon watches him, waiting for the bomb to drop.

"We'll be there in thirty minutes," Ryan says.

Brendon's face lights up, but he's a little surprised to find it's nothing to do with Troy. "Dude -- "

"Yeah, whatever."

"The -- no way." He grins. "You're not seriously -- you _are_? The cabin? Seriously?!"

Ryan grins at him sideways, just a little, but it's enough. "No more questions."

Brendon smiles big at him, waiting for Ryan to turn and catch it, and when he does, Ryan smiles back.

"So there, call him," Ryan suggests, but his voice and posture have dropped, his offer weak and forced in a way Brendon can't begin to understand, but he wants to.

He digs out the crumpled receipt from his pocket and looks at the numbers and name scrawled over the back, the lines of thick, smeary lead from the pencil's dull tip. He can feel Ryan watching him as he smushes the receipt into a little ball, rolling down his window and tossing it out to the dry, summer evening wind.

He meets Ryan's eyes, and Ryan looks confused, like he wants to smile but he's not sure if he's allowed, so Brendon smiles first. Ryan doesn't smile back, not really. It would be too indulgent, too sacrificial of his pride.

But Brendon keeps watching him as he turns his attention back to the road, and after a moment, he can see the edges of Ryan's lips inching upward, just enough to be obvious. And when Brendon loosens his seatbelt a little and leans over, resting his head on Ryan's sun-warmed shoulder, Ryan doesn't push him away.

 

+++

 

Even through Ryan's enduring, halfhearted grip on the element of surprise, Brendon's beginning to give in to his suspicions more and more with each passing mile, trying not to set his heart on it, but unable to hold back his excitement as they start to pass familiar road signs, take exits he remembers with a warm, hazy recognition.

Once they're in town he's all gone, figuring even if they don't end up behind the exact same four walls, this is good enough. He remembers the town all too well, the little grocery store with the weird bananas; the hole-in-the-wall music shop where they bought new strings. Maybe the experience wasn't _all_ good, but no experience worth having ever is, and the summer spent here was filled to the brim with memories of Jon's smile, still bright even through transparent curtains of smoke; Spencer's laughter, easy and open like it never is; and Ryan's... And Ryan. A reckless trail of "try anything once" experimentation, all the drugs they never should've, emerging just lucky to be alive. Laughing and drunk-diving into the lake, stargazing on the roof; guitars burnt to a crisp and Shane's camera making them all feel like they were doing something worth doing, something magical; and music -- always music, everywhere, even through the nights of blistering frustration, sweaty palms squeezing into tight fists to fight tempers; music even that one night, the night that could've changed everything and that Ryan so painstakingly ensured never would.

Brendon wouldn't trade a single moment.

The sun's just starting to blaze over to fiery orange as they drive through the blink-and-you'll-miss-it streets of town, the old buildings sagging comfortably along the roads, when he looks over to Ryan's side and they share a smile. Ryan's says _yes_ to Brendon's unspoken question, and Brendon turns back to his own window, afraid his smile will give away something he can't define.

It's strange, how sure he is of where they're headed, but it doesn't stop his nerves from escalating with every corner they take, every familiar street name that comes into view. It's like listening to them announce the winning lottery ticket: the first few numbers match yours, but with each one, you get more and more nervous, knowing the chance of of it being yours gets slimmer with each number that matches up.

The car rounds the final corner into the quarter-mile driveway, and before Brendon even registers it, the cabin is popping into view over the treetops, its wide, layered roof peeking through the branches.

Pine needles crunch under their feet as they climb out of the car, and Brendon's legs ache gratefully with the opportunity to stretch at last. The air smells just like he never realized he'd remembered, cleaner and clearer than anywhere he's ever been, and if it's possible, he can even smell the lake in the backyard, just beyond the wide deck off the kitchen.

He soaks it up, eyes falling shut and head lolling back lazily, letting the oxygen spill into his lungs. When he finally turns to Ryan, Ryan's watching him behind a shy smile.

"Well?"

Brendon grins. "Well what?"

"I dunno. I mean. Is this... good? Was this -- "

"Are you kidding me?"

"I don't know, I mean. I know, not everything here was... great... and we kind of started to go nuts after awhile, but."

Ryan looks so small standing there by himself, and Brendon finds himself crossing the gravel driveway to stand in front of him, fingers itching to take Ryan's hands, but instead he settles for smiling.

"It's perfect."

It's enough to set Ryan's face alight. "Yeah?"

"Dude. _Yes_. I loved it here, you know I did. How did you fucking _get_ this place again? Is this out of your own pocket? Because you're fucking nuts, Pete bitched at us for weeks about the price of this place."

Ryan shrugs dismissively. "'S no big deal. I called the guy and he said he didn't have any tenants for another couple months, told me he'd give me a good deal if I booked for four weeks, so... I did."

Brendon's eyes shoot wide. "We're here for a _month_?"

"I -- " Suddenly Ryan looks horrified, like he's made a gigantic mistake. "I just -- we don't have to -- I mean, we can leave early. Or. Y'know, if you get bored we can see if Spence and Jon want to come, or Shane. Or just. Travel somewhere else, whatever you want, I just thought, we're always really bored when we're not on tour or writing or recording and it's not like we ever do anything productive at home so I just -- "

On some inappropriate instinct, Brendon lunges forward and presses the fingers of one hand flat against Ryan's mouth, stilling the nervous flow of words, and Brendon's insantly rewarded with a flash of sympathy for anyone who's been in his company for any period of time his whole life, because if this is the kind of cracked-out rambling they're forced to tolerate, he doesn't know how they do it.

He jerks his hand away when Ryan's eyes widen a little, but he can't shake his smile.

"Ryan, it's perfect."

Ryan smiles back. "Yeah?"

And despite his fondness for speech, Brendon's always believed touch conquers all. Without giving himself too much time to consider it, he's pushing the last few inches into Ryan's space and wrapping him in a hug, the kind he stopped giving Ryan years ago when he realized he wasn't getting them back.

This time, he gets it back.

 

+++

 

It makes Brendon's face hurt from smiling to see how perfectly their two guitars fit into the music room, propped against the baby grand, beside the out of date but functional drum kit, and the motherfucking _harp_ that no one ever really understood, not that Brendon didn't engage in more than one drunken attempt to play it. There's a cello in one of the closets somewhere, he remembers, and a couple of flutes in another, but he can't recall where. The owner's a retired music professor and that was about all the convincing they'd needed to sign the lease.

He claims his old bedroom, even though he'd prefer the one closest to Ryan's, but he feels the cabin is demanding tradition, as he explains to Ryan while Ryan's on the phone trying to order a veggie pizza without cheese on one half (what the _actual fuck_ ). Ryan responds that if tradition is what the cabin wants, then Brendon had better march his ass outside naked and drunk, make up a dance to "Toxic," and perform it on the dock before the sun goes down.

Brendon flips him off.

Dinner ends up a lot more involving than Brendon had bargained for, because it turns out Ryan had packed a secret stash of graham crackers, marshmallows, and Hershey's bars ("Shut up, it doesn't count as dairy if it's chocolate") -- but considering the end result, Brendon can't really find it in himself to complain when Ryan puts him on stick-hunting duty. Brendon diplomatically suggests they could just roast the marshmallows on the ends of Ryan's fingers, but Ryan is somewhat less than sold.

It's on his eighth s'more, mosquitos just starting to buzz around his skin and the last sliver of sun slipping down over the treetops, when Brendon decides any more time spent out of the water would be a crime against the universal concept of vacation.

"You know," Ryan points out, legs dangling over the edge of the dock, one foot kicking out of the water to splash at Brendon, "you're not supposed to swim right after you eat. 'Specially not after you've eaten enough to feed both of us for a week."

Brendon grins manically from where he's waist deep, his boxers bubbling out beneath him underwater, and raises an eyebrow. "If I start to drown, will you save me?"

Ryan smirks. "Maybe."

"Maybe?" Brendon saunters forward, letting the water liquify the movements of his body. "Maybe... you should get your ass in the water, just in case."

"Fuck you, I'm not swimming, not tonight."

"Don't make me start singing 'Under the Sea,' Ross. I'll do it."

"And then _I'll_ drown you."

Brendon bites his lip. "Not if I drown you first."

And just like that, one hand shoots out, hooking around Ryan's calf and tugging him forward until he's sliding right off the dock into the water. Ryan's limbs fly everywhere, reminding Brendon of a puppy subjected to his first bath, but Ryan gets his footing soon enough and he's fighting just as dirty, broken laughter punctuating their moves as they fight to dunk each other. Brendon's got a slight weight advantage, but Ryan's got agility and endless limbs that can practically tie _knots_ around Brendon's body. Brendon manages to wrangle Ryan out of his t-shirt so they're on equal ground, and Ryan finally calls "uncle" when Brendon ducks underwater and starts tugging on the cuffs of Ryan's pants.

"...Four fucking weeks to get back at you, I swear to god," Ryan's laughing as they pull themselves back onto the dock, Ryan with significantly more effort, having to contend with the extra weight from his soaked-through pants.

Brendon collapses on his back on the dock, the wooden surface still warm from the day's dose of sun. He feels Ryan settle beside him, their shoulders brushing as he situates himself. Brendon feels himself shiver, and that nagging voice he's tried to silence for years tells him it's little to do with the water, and more to do with the feel of Ryan's skin, wet but still heated, tickling lightly against Brendon's. If either of them move an inch the contact will be lost. Brendon forces himself not to hold his breath.

The stars are just making the shift from clouded dots to bright, sharp points mapping out the sky, when the silence finally breaks.

"Keltie would've liked it here," Ryan says.

Brendon smiles, his shoulder nudging Ryan's. "Way to kill the mood, loser."

"We have a _mood_?"

"Not anymore!"

Ryan inclines his head, smiling, but Brendon turns back to the sky.

"You talk to her at all since after Valentine's Day?" he asks.

He feels Ryan shrug. "Not much. I mean. We tried to. Just to... I don't know. Make sense of things. I dunno; she did most of the talking. I didn't really know what to say. I'm not good at... I guess I'm just used to you and Spence and Jon kind of always... knowing what I'm thinking, without me having to say it."

Brendon nods, and he thinks maybe that's the end of it; Ryan hasn't volunteered much information about what happened, and Brendon hasn't asked much, because Ryan will talk when he's ready, even if it takes months, or years.

"I... never told you," Ryan suddenly continues, "never told anyone, but. I was actually the one who ended it."

Brendon turns, his forehead creasing, waiting for Ryan to look at him, but Ryan doesn't. "I thought..."

"I mean, yeah, she caught me, but. She asked me -- she actually asked me, if she should give me another chance. And I told her... no. I said we should call it quits, once and for all." He's holding his breath, and Brendon can feel the moment it spills out, shaky and unsure. "Do you think I'm a bad person?"

"I. No," Brendon answers honestly. "No... you did bad things but that doesn't mean you're a bad person."

Ryan doesn't say anything, but the tension in his shoulders melts a little, enough for Brendon to put forth the one question that's been eating at him since it all went down, eyes still hard-focused on the jagged, meaningless patterns of stars scattered overhead, all motionless but twinkling, like they're trying to move but just can't.

"Can I... can I ask... why you did it? Cheating, I mean?"

Predictably, Ryan sighs, but it's not out of frustration, more like relief that the question's finally been brought to the surface. "I... was searching," he finally says. "For a version of myself that I wanted to exist, but it didn't."

Brendon smiles to himself, because the only explanation more cryptic would've been, simply, "because."

He says, "That's all I'm gonna get, isn't it?"

Ryan turns to him and smiles. "For now."

Ryan's smiles tend to be contagious, and this is no exception. Their eyes eventually gravitate back to the sky in unison, and Brendon wonders if they're looking at the same stars.

"Where do you think we'll be?" Brendon asks. "Not in like, five or ten years but like... twenty. Thirty."

Ryan shrugs. "It'd be easy to say we'll still be in the band, but it's not like a bunch of senior citizens are gonna bring in too many crowds."

"Yeah," Brendon chuckles. "But it's weird, 'cause at the same time, I can't imagine us _not_ making music together, all of us. I can't imagine us not being in each other's lives."

"We will be," Ryan says, and it's the surest Brendon's ever heard his voice since the night he looked into Pete's eyes and assured him, _yes_ , he wanted this. After a moment he pokes at Brendon's arm. "Didn't you say you wanted to teach music, maybe?"

"Yeah... yeah, I'd love to, someday. Get my degree and stuff. It'd be awesome."

"You'd be really good at it," Ryan tells him, and there's a smile in his voice.

Brendon finds himself lost in the hypnotic bits of light above, the way he can see the moon reflecting off the tiny ripples in the lake out of the corner of his eye.

"We'd still be us, though, right?" Ryan asks, and he sounds young again, like they've suddenly descended into a living, breathing flashback to the nights he and Ryan spent in Brendon's shitty apartment, sharing the mattress on his bedroom floor when Ryan couldn't bear to be in his own house. Ryan's voice sounded so young then, young and small but wildly hopeful, always eager for Brendon's approval, his assurance, in a way he wouldn't allow himself to be during the day. "If... we weren't a band. We'd still be us, all of us, together. Wouldn't we?"

Ryan's hand is so close, his knuckles right at Brendon's hip, that it's impossible for Brendon not to reach out and curl his fingers around them, loose, just enough to establish contact.

"We could never not be us, Ryan."

Ryan's fingers weave into his, still damp from the lake but hot against Brendon's, almost too hot, but not enough.

"Ryan?"

"Hmm."

"Why'd you bring me back here?"

The silence stretches long enough for Brendon to wish he'd never opened his mouth, but Ryan's hand doesn't leave his, doesn't stiffen, and when Ryan finally turns to him, his lips are curled upward.

"Ask again later."

Brendon bites back a smirk. "Like a magic eight-ball?"

A small splash of laughter tumbles up from his throat. "Yeah... only, I don't think I'll ever have all the answers."

Brendon smiles. "I don't think I need all the answers."

And that -- maybe that's it, Brendon thinks. Maybe we're not supposed to have all the answers. Maybe that's what makes life interesting, the collision of endless questions and answers, and those precious moments of triumph when we can match the right ones together.

Ryan squeezes his fingers, and Brendon doesn't know whether it's a question or an answer, but somehow, it feels like a match.

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for the overwhelming response to chapter 1. ♥ I realized after the fact that I subconsciously modeled "town" after my city's own [historic square](http://www.themariettasquare.com/), if you want a visual; and some [pics](http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=2096366&l=42b50&id=23213526) I took myself. And please ignore Brendon's philistine opinion on the CD referenced; it's gorgeous. Also, [this](http://community.livejournal.com/hard_at_work/9392.html) may prove helpful.
> 
>  **Dedication:** [](http://j-plash.livejournal.com/profile)[**j_plash**](http://j-plash.livejournal.com/) for finding the [interview](http://patdonline.com/gallery/displayimage.php?pid=1032&fullsize=1) for me originally, [](http://selectivelyurie.livejournal.com/profile)[**selectivelyurie**](http://selectivelyurie.livejournal.com/) for finding it again because I'm lazy, [](http://alphabetatoast.livejournal.com/profile)[**alphabetatoast**](http://alphabetatoast.livejournal.com/) for helping me pick a song, and [](http://redorchids.livejournal.com/profile)[](http://redorchids.livejournal.com/)**redorchids** , just 'cause. :)

**2.**

 

 

_When you look back on something that changed your world, you can't help but run over every moment in your head that led up to it, searching for some sign of its coming. But looking back, no matter how closely or intensely, Brendon will never be able to pinpoint what snapped in their little corner of the universe to the point of upturning it altogether._

_When Brendon wakes up, it's to the sound of Spencer and Ryan arguing over breakfast duties, and Jon in the adjoining room, absently and a little wistfully strumming through the bass line from the fourth song on the album that, as of twelve hours ago, was unanimously voted out of existence._

_Brendon pulls on a pair of drawstring pants and an undershirt, twists himself around to crack his lower back, and pads downstairs, sitting by the window to chomp on an apple while he stares out at the lake, not daring to reach past Ryan for the box of Pop Tarts with Ryan informing Spencer just where he can stick that spatula and Spencer looking like he might spontaneously combust._

_The lake is dark gray this time of morning, a layer of fog hovering over the still plane of water. It looks peaceful, settled, and Brendon wishes he were as lucky._

_Jon switches tunes and starts playing the kite song, which had been Brendon's favorite. He doesn't regret their decision, but watching their hard work dissolve behind them is going to sting for awhile. Three more days and they'll be back in Vegas with nothing to show but a half-burnt guitar and some video footage of their unglamorous descent into madness. At least it's black and white, so it'll be _artsy_ madness._

_He snags a case of Red Bull, a couple bottles of water, and a bag of chips, and holes himself up in the music room with a specific agenda of none at all. He sends the other three a mass text proclaiming, **fuckin aroudn, pls not disturb unless necesary? thx** ; he doesn't get any responses, but no one bothers him either, and by late afternoon he's written a -- a **something**. He wasn't trying, but it happened, and now it exists. It's short, it sounds sweet and light, and he wonders if anyone besides his band will break through the layers. As a joke, he scribbles "Folkin' Around" at the top of the page and sticks his pen behind his ear._

_He's so close to done, only one line away, he can feel it, but he's stuck. Every time his eyes catch on the words, **I've never been more scared to be alone** , he can't force himself past the glaring truth, and his mind narrows around the fear._

_"You still alive?"_

_He jerks around at the voice, having been so lost in his head that he'd missed the creak of the hinges as Ryan had carefully poked his head through the door. Ryan's smiling down at him, carefully, like he's afraid Brendon might yell at him to leave, but he looks tired and hopeful and Brendon's lips are curling up before he's even fully registered the new presence._

_"Hey. Get in here before I lose my mind."_

_Ryan steps inside, taking one look at the mess of chip crumbs on the floor and the six empty cans of Red Bull littering the space around Brendon's feet, and raises an eyebrow. "Too late."_

_Brendon's face contorts playfully, one foot extending to poke at Ryan's leg. "Ready to go home?"_

_Ryan nods, folding himself neatly on the floor beside Brendon, Indian style, hands in his lap and back slumped against the wall, their heads inclined to one another. Brendon blames Shane's presence, subtly infusing them all with his cinematography bug, for the image in his head: how he and Ryan might look from a lens across the room in their mirrored postures. He idly ponders negative space; whether the lines of their faces would make the shape of a vase._

_But once they're close, the artistic side of his brain slows to a halt and reality takes the reins as he studies Ryan's face. There are dark circles where there weren't before; little jagged, razor-thin red lines shooting out across his eyes, bloodshot and dulled. Brendon remembers how those eyes looked on their first day here, shining and wide and confident, and a weary ache settles in his chest._

_His reaction must be visible, because Ryan curls in further on himself like he's been caught, eventually closing his eyes and crumpling until he's fitted against Brendon's side, head on Brendon's shoulder. Brendon can smell his shampoo, and he's glad the position traps his arm under Ryan's weight, or it would be too easy to reach up and touch, touch too much, touch everywhere. Brendon doesn't think he's very skilled at solving anybody's emo; the only thing he knows is physical comfort, but the boundaries of it have always tended to blur and stretch, dissolve mockingly, whenever Ryan's around._

_"You okay?"_

_Ryan sighs against his shoulder, hot breath filtering through the thin fabric of his shirt. "We failed."_

_The ache in his chest flares, shoving a rough breath out of its way. "We didn't."_

_Ryan shrugs._

_"Listen. Hey," Brendon prods, trying to lighten his voice. "When Edison was working on the light bulb, he fucked up like, eight hundred times before he got it right. And everyone was like, 'Dude, aren't you like, all discouraged?' And Edison's like, 'Are you shitting me, man? I made **progress**! I discovered eight hundred things that don't work!'"_

_Ryan lifts his head, eyes squinty from being shut, with a bemused crease sunk into his forehead. "Edison said 'shit'?"_

_Brendon laughs. "Duh."_

_Ryan allows himself a smile, snuggling back against Brendon's side. "Play me something?"_

_Brendon twists his head a little, just enough to press a carefully orchestrated friends-only kiss to the top of Ryan's head. He's been doing it for so long it doesn't even take effort now, and he almost forgets how hard it once was, not to let his lips linger._

_"Anything. What do you want?"_

_"Beatles?"_

_"Way to narrow it down," Brendon teases as he repositions his guitar, feeling the dull ache return to his muscles from having held the position all day. He doesn't let himself think too hard, just lets his mind flow and wander and turn inside out and back again, knowing the right song will slip to the forefront, like always._

_He's surprised when it's an image that strikes him first, instead of music: last week's stoned rooftop sing-along, cabin tradition, weekly and non-negotiable. Brendon remembers Ryan's voice, slurred and giddy and warm in his ear as he'd lain on his side while Brendon sprawled out on his back, staring up at the stars as he belted "Across The Universe" at the top of his smoke-laden lungs. Ryan was trying to remember what the chant meant in translation; Spencer couldn't remember either. Jon did, but he was having more fun not telling. Brendon was having trouble remembering his own **name** , so he spent his energy inventing ridiculous translations including "I have a giant wang-doodle," earning him bonus points from Jon for a Willy Wonka reference. Ryan had laughed so hard he almost fell off the roof until Brendon caught hold of him, strong hands curled around his arms as they giggled in each other's faces, too close but never enough. With blown pupils zeroed in on Brendon's, Ryan had murmured, "Don't ever change," soft and secret, too quiet for the others to hear, before passing out in Brendon's arms, a smile still on his lips as he slept._

_The memory has his fingers locating the chords like they were headed there all along. Slowly, the music fills the small space around them, and Ryan hums his approval against Brendon's shoulder._

_And for all that's gone wrong over the past two months, all the two steps back for every step forward, there's nothing in this moment that doesn't feel perfectly, beautifully **right**. Brendon lets it wash over him as he sings, eyelids fluttering shut, and he doesn't even realize Ryan's pulled away until he hums out the last **Jai guru deva om** , letting it fade like smoke from his lips._

_When he opens his eyes, his world has changed._

_Ryan's eyes are moon-wide and zoom-lens close, watching Brendon like he's never seen him before -- like maybe Ryan just wished for a purple octopus on a whim, and the purple octopus **appeared** , and the purple octopus is **Brendon**._

_It doesn't make any sense but nothing does, and Brendon even starts to wonder if common speech would still prove functional, because it feels like the universe has turned upside down, backwards, and mirrored. He's just opening his mouth to find out, when Ryan invades his space, lifting the guitar off his lap and setting it gently on the floor before crawling forward, cupping Brendon's face in his hands, and joining their lips._

_Brendon feels frozen, but as it turns out, despite years of tedious practice, of forcing himself to move past All Of This, his body has apparently rejected it all, doesn't know how **not** to respond, because even though he's sure his nervous system has shut down, he can feel his lips moving, molding around Ryan's, coaxing him closer. He can feel his hands coming up to Ryan's hips, just resting because he **can** ; he can feel Ryan climbing forward into his lap, settling close, deepening the kiss until it's not just a kiss, it's **kissing** , thumbs stroking softly over Brendon's face as their tongues twine, push, pull, search. It doesn't feel like a first kiss, yet it feels like his first ever: slow and impossibly real, not frantic, but like some underlying current humming with an electricity that rivals anything Edison invented._

_"Dinner!"_

_Ryan jerks away, lips swollen red and eyes blown, and in an instant, Brendon's world shifts back._

_Only, it's like those movies where you go back in time, and even if you're only there for a moment, your mere presence changes the course of events so drastically that by the time you return to your own time, it's no longer the world you came from._

_Spencer's cheerful, far-off voice is still ringing in his ears as they watch each other, panting. Brendon can hear him and Jon laughing over something in the kitchen; the clink of pots and pans, cabinets opening and shutting. He can feel the early-evening wave of sun soaking over them through the music room's endless windows, warm and blinding, and he wonders how everything can be the same when clearly nothing is._

_Ryan doesn't make a scene, but he crawls off Brendon's lap too fast not to be obvious. Their eyes are still locked as they stand up together, carefully maintaining a distance. Brendon tries to open his mouth, but speech still doesn't make any sense (the first of many signs everything's changed), and all that comes out is a choked, "Ryan."_

_Ryan swallows hard, finally wrenching his eyes away to focus on the stripes of his socks poking out beneath the cuffs of his jeans._

_"Dinner," he whispers._

_" **Ryan**."_

_"Dinner," Ryan repeats. He nods his head once -- assurance, like he's made a decision -- and reaches one hand blindly for the doorknob._

_Brendon can't, can't, can't stop himself from acting, from scrambling forward until one hand closes around Ryan's wrist, and instantly he feels Ryan go boneless under his touch, but everything in Ryan's eyes is begging him, **please**._

_Brendon tries, but he can't ignore the implied **don't** that clearly follows._

_"Dinner," Ryan says again, his voice almost normal, and Brendon releases his arm, watching him slink through the door._

_Warm, sensory evidence of roast chicken and mashed potatoes carries heavily through the open door, smells that should be comforting but only conspire to convince Brendon this moment never happened; that everything's the same; that he imagined it; that he can't still taste Ryan on his lips, feel him beneath his fingers._

_A lyric stains into his mind, **Limitless undying love which shines around me like a million suns**. He scoffs. Frustration prickles behind his eyes, and the worst part of his brain tries to tell him, **Love is not enough**._

_He knows it's a lie._

_In a rush of inspiration, he retracts the pen from behind his ear and snatches his notebook off the floor, scribbling a final sentence into the margins before forcing himself from the room._

 

+++

 

_"Do you want to know when I fell in love with you?"_

There's nothing worse than a dream that ends precisely the moment it shouldn't, but Brendon's all kinds of cursed, and those sorts of dreams tend to be his staple. He blinks his eyes open, frowning at the sun pouring shamelessly through his window, and mentally kicks himself for forgetting to draw the curtains before bed. In consolation, it was a motherfucking weird-ass dream; he and the guys had been stranded on some deserted island after a plane crash, and he couldn't remember much now, but there was a waterfall and apparently Ryan was about to confess his _love_ , for Christ's sake. Surely the universe could've allowed him five more blissfully unconscious minutes.

But that's all par for the course, in Brendon's world; the crazy part is that when his senses return to him, he realizes he hasn't been imagining the soft lull of waves against the shore, because they're totally _in his ears_ , right now, and unless the thin mountain air is toying with the oxygen supply to his brain, this is really, really not normal.

He barely remembers to pull on pants (a shirt is just too much work before noon), stumbles a little on his way down the stairs when the sounds grow louder, and there's that moment of fused relief and deflation when he spots the little green power light on the stereo in one corner of the living room. As he reaches the bottom of the stairs, he spots a jewel case boasting _Sounds of the Seaside_ on the cover, lying diagonal across an end table. The sun rays blanketing the room reflect off the clear plastic, too bright, too sharp -- but it's not the light that blinds him.

When his sleep-hazy line of vision widens, Ryan enters it, subtle and unobtrusive except for how Brendon's breath goes short and sharp at the sight: Ryan in nothing but his boxer briefs and a tank top, bent into a triangle over a blue mat on the floor, ass sticking up in the air and head hanging low in some pose Brendon remembers from Ryan's unwarranted ramblings as down-something-dog. His tenuous consciousness leads him aboard a train of thought that beelines from dog to doggie style to _Ryan's ass sticking up in the air_ , and Brendon has full-on porno stills in his head before he's finished rubbing the sleep out of his eyes.

He congratulates himself that a certain lower portion of his anatomy doesn't beat him to that fully awakened state, and granted, it probably has something to do with the bowl he smoked last night and chased with however many beers, but hey. Minor details.

It's nothing he hadn't seen in California, he reminds himself as he shuffles around the room, but it's different now, without Spencer on the phone in the next room, or Jon typing away on his laptop. It's just them, just Ryan to be watched, and Brendon to watch him. He finds himself encircling Ryan like some sort of prey, lips twitching happily as the morning's first rush of teasing insults begins to stir in his mind, because if he can focus on the fact that this is motherfucking hilarious, because it _is_ , maybe he can forget the tingling heat liquefying low in his belly.

He ends up in a patch of sun by the armchair, lets it drench him, and he's just opened his mouth when Ryan beats him to it.

"Don't," he says quietly, voice heavy and scratchy in the awkward position.

Brendon blinks. "What?"

"You can make fun of me when I'm done, but not now, please."

"I -- " Brendon drops down into the armchair, trying to swallow down the cheap shots lodged in his throat. "I wasn't."

Ryan cranes his neck to look up at him, eyes veiled behind his hair, and he smirks, knowing but tolerant. Brendon smiles in return, appreciative of what an indulgence it is that Ryan would break from his yoga trance to even acknowledge another's presence.

Ryan drops his head back down, lets it bob a little as it hangs between his shoulders, and Brendon folds his legs up on the chair with him, knees to his chest. He's awake enough now that he can appreciate what he's seeing on a level beyond the physical response of his own pesky hormones. There's an indisputable art to it, the way Ryan glides through the poses, the lines of his body bending and flexing and so far from the sunken, slouching frame Brendon has known all these years, always reluctant to stand upright for fear of being seen, judged. Ryan's nothing like that now, his limbs and spine stretched long, falling into graceful arcs as he guides his body through the postures, and Brendon doesn't, _almost almost_ doesn't, imagine how well his fingers would fit over the curve of Ryan's neck (how well they _have_ , the few times Ryan's allowed it in front of thousands, only in front of thousands); how his tongue would feel pressed into the little dimples at the base of Ryan's spine, just above his...

So Brendon is maybe a little fucked.

The comforting part is that it's nothing new; he's been fucked for six years and he's learned to deal. What rips a sigh from his chest, long and discouraged, is how hard he's worked to un-fuck himself, how much effort it's taken, and how convinced he'd been that he'd succeeded -- only to find that all it takes to slip and fall is some one-on-one in the middle of nowhere: more contact, fewer boundaries. Less to do, more to see. The mind-softening buzz of sunlight over his skin, and no one telling him _no_.

Not even Ryan.

He doesn't know what makes him do it -- maybe boredom, maybe curiosity, maybe he's still just chasing after some fraction of admittance into Ryan's world, but he finds himself on the floor, spreading out on a rectangle of carpet beside Ryan's mat, trying to twist into the same position Ryan's holding. He knows Ryan sees him, and for a few moments he just follows in silence, watching Ryan's every move and striving to imitate, but when they launch into a balancing pose, Brendon's early morning uselessness takes over and he wobbles helplessly, half on his way to the floor before Ryan's hand ducks out to curl around his bare shoulder, pulling him back upright.

"You haven't done the warm-up," Ryan tells him. "You shouldn't. You'll pull something."

Brendon smirks. "I'm trying to better myself here, Ross."

"You can better yourself tomorrow morning, if you want. Eight a.m. sharp."

Brendon huffs. "No betterment is worth my beauty sleep."

Ryan rolls his eyes. "I think you're a few hours short today."

Brendon flips him off but Ryan smiles before he contorts himself back up, his breaths long and deep, eyes falling shut in the pose and fingers spread wide as he extends one arm high above his head, effectively evaporating every last grip of tension from his shoulders.

Brendon watches him for another minute over the lull of waves chasing each other across the shore, waiting to ensure Ryan's lost far enough in himself before Brendon reaches quietly over to the sofa, snatching up his Sidekick and setting an alarm for seven-fifty.

 

+++

 

"One..."

"Two..."

"Three."

The third word sounds in unison, the fusion of their voices that has become all too familiar over the years: from blow-ups to duets, but in the end, always joined, always one.

Brendon smiles, whipping his DVD case out from behind his back as Ryan does the same, and their eyes lock to each other's selections.

" _Damn_ it!"

"Are you kidding me?! Subtitles?!"

Ryan frowns, hugging _El Orfanato_ closely to his chest. "It won like, thirty awards! It's compelling and haunting! And it's just Spanish, you took Spanish in high school!"

Brendon's mouth opens and closes for a few flabbergasted seconds, like a fish, trying to form words but, but, seriously, just, " _Die Hard_! _Die Hard_ , Ryan!"

Ryan straightens his posture. "There's ghosts..."

"There's _shit getting blown up_!"

Ryan shakes his head, slowly and sadly. "You are seriously the worst gay man ever."

"And you're the worst straight man ever."

Ryan lifts his chin haughtily, shaking his hair out of his eyes and, Jesus, case in point. "Fight you for it?"

"Fine." Brendon holds up a fist for rock-paper-scissors. "One, two -- "

"Oh, come on," Ryan smirks. "We can settle this like men."

Brendon's eyebrows shoot up into his hairline. "...Should I bring my dueling pistols or my sword?"

Ryan smiles at the Bridget Jones ref, and _ha_ , he remembered. Score one for Brendon's gay, and negative one for Ryan's straight.

"Fine, maybe not the _worst_ gay man ever."

Brendon grins.

Ryan shrugs. "I'll arm-wrestle you for it."

Brendon barks out a laugh, dropping instantly to the floor and sprawling out on his stomach, one elbow bent in front of him. "Get your ass in gear for two hours of explosions."

"Mm-hmm," Ryan indulges absently, yawning as he drops down to mimic Brendon's position in front of him, holding out an arm and clasping their fingers together. "Ready?"

"Set. Go."

It's five short, dignity-drowning seconds before Brendon's arm hits the carpet, and Ryan laughs so hard he topples over.

"What the _actual fucking fuck_?!" Brendon shrieks after the first wave of shock subsides. "The fucking -- how did you -- you _never_ beat me! You couldn't even beat Keltie!"

"Yoga," Ryan shrugs, his smile enough to shame Cheshire Cats the world over as he stares at Brendon upside down. "It's a beautiful thing, Urie."

"Fuck you!"

"Later. Now, subtitles."

"I hate you."

"Endless, endless words across the screen that you _have to read_..."

" _Hate. You._."

Ryan shoves his DVD into the player and plops down on the couch beside Brendon with a grin so triumphant you'd think he'd won the olympics. Loser. One fucking round of arm-wrestling? Brendon will not be outdone; this bitch is goin' down. He just needs a plan.

He fixes a narrow-eyed leer on Ryan, warning and mysterious, before holding his head high and resigning his gaze to the television. But Ryan's not a jerky winner, at least not this time, and he snuggles against Brendon's side in apology.

Brendon doesn't mean to, but there's something different, something about Ryan that doesn't register as _Ryan_ , and Brendon sniffs theatrically, leaning in toward Ryan's neck.

"...Dude, are you wearing perfume?"

Ryan stiffens a little, retreating back into his own space, eyes firmly on the screen. "It's lotion, asshole. The people who were here before us left it I think, or something, I don't know, it looked really expensive."

"I... _why_?"

"Because! The mountain air makes my skin all dry and itchy."

"Loser. What kind is it?"

"Coconut magnolia, shut up."

Brendon chuckles low and deep, letting it rumble comically up from his throat. "Such a girl, man."

"Says the fag who just lost at arm-wrestling to _me_."

Instead of choosing to supply him with an adequate comeback, Brendon's brain decides to sulk. He surrenders wearily.

Ryan pokes him as a gesture of truce, and Brendon plasters himself along Ryan's stupid, bony side.

It's not even halfway through the opening credits and Brendon's too busy _translating_ everything, for fuck's sake, to even realize he's doing it, until Ryan reacts, jerking his head to the side to meet Brendon's eyes.

"...Did you sniff me again?"

"I -- no!"

"You _like_ it!"

"No I don't, it's -- it's okay, it's nice! It smells okay."

"You love my pretty girly lotion."

"No. You know what I love? Bruce Willis saving the world."

"Too bad. Shut up and watch."

Brendon wants to correct it to 'shut up and _read_ ,' but Ryan shifts against him and Brendon finds himself slumped further, close enough that he can't pry himself away without being obvious, and it's all suddenly right there, Ryan and Ryan's shampoo and Ryan's deodorant and Ryan's aftershave and now... Ryan's fucking _lotion_ , and Brendon doesn't want this, doesn't want anything else that makes him _want_ , doesn't want anything more to solidify Ryan in his mind, programmed into his not-so-sub-conscious as one giant _yes, yes, yes_ \-- but it's here.

It's here, and he can't ignore it; he wonders how he ever did.

If he ever did.

Ryan nudges him, voice close to his ear so Brendon can feel the words as they're released. "We can watch _Die Hard_ after if you want?"

Brendon's heart jumps and twists and three words tumble into his throat before he catches them.

He swallows them down with a lump and thinks, unequivocally, _Fuck_.

 

+++

 

"I dunno, man. This place looks kind of... hole-in-the-wall-ish."

"Yeah, exactly," Brendon chirps. "These are the kinds of places that have like, the world's best blueberry pie."

"...Or salmonella."

"Oh my god, don't be such a snob -- "

"Hello!"

They un-huddle themselves quickly enough, reprogramming their faces into looks of content non-suspicion as the bouncy old woman in an apron smiles brightly up at them.

"Hello!" Brendon echoes, grinning wide.

"Two?"

"Yes, please."

"Right this way."

Brendon glares at Ryan, hoping the _See how nice?_ engraved into the look will sufficiently shut him up for the remainder of their stay. It _is_ nice here, the quintessential town experience set in the heart of the main strip: quaint and homey with red checkered tablecloths, log-cabin walls, and vintage tin signs that have probably been around since long before they were vintage. Early evening sun beams comfortably through the thick wooden slats of the Venitian blinds, and from somewhere distant, Italian cafe music is stealing through the air, teasing their senses as it fuses with the aroma of pasta and fresh garlic.

"Anyway," Brendon whispers to Ryan as the woman weaves through the tables, leading them to their own, "we wouldn't be here at all if you hadn't burned down the kitchen."

"There's a -- !" Ryan glances around, lowering his voice. "There's a difference between burning _dinner_ and burning down the kitchen, dickhead."

Brendon smirks. "Hypothetically, yes. When it's you? No."

Ryan pinches Brendon's hip, drawing an appreciative, overly pleased mewling noise in response. Ryan rolls his eyes in defeat; Brendon has won.

Their table's in a corner, away from most of the others, and there's a moment of _oh fucking great_ when Brendon puts two and two together: isolated small-town mentalities versus his skinny jeans and bright pink Supras, coupled with the fact that Ryan, ironically, tends to scream "homo!" wherever he goes. It's nothing Brendon's not used to -- seems his life is always zooming between extremes of screaming fangirls and screams of "faggot" -- but he wasn't counting on it tonight.

"Here you go," the woman says cheerfully, still smiling as she gestures for them to sit and lays a menu in front of each seat. "I thought you might like to sit back here; you'll have a bit more privacy."

Brendon's eyes widen and dart upwards just in time to catch the wink in her eye, and he bites his lip against a burst of laughter before turning to Ryan, finding him comparably wide-eyed and amused.

"Can I start you boys off with some drinks?"

"Uh." Ryan clears his throat. "Some water, maybe, and two coffees, decaf?"

"Right away."

Brendon splutters into a fit of giggles as soon as she's gone, slumping into his seat and covering his head with the menu.

"Look, Ross, just 'cause I'm your arm candy doesn't mean I want you ordering for me. I am my own woman."

Ryan rolls his eyes. "Why does everyone think we're a couple?!"

Brendon lowers his menu. "Who else thought we were a couple?"

"Condom guy, at the gas station!"

"Oh, yeah!" Brendon drops his head to the table as he remembers, his shoulders trembling from laughter.

"So fucking embarrassing," Ryan hisses, throwing open his menu and huffing as he splays it out in front of him.

And it's. Yeah. It shouldn't but it does, it stings just a tiny bit, small enough to be embarrassed that it hurts at all: but, like a pin prick, small or no, it still penetrates.

Brendon looks up slowly through his lashes, but once he meets Ryan's eyes, warm and smiling beneath the annoyance, he's instantly lost, unable to gauge how obvious he's being. He can only hope it's minimal.

"I mean -- is that -- " he starts awkwardly, shrugging. "Would I really be that bad of a boyfriend?"

Ryan's face falls, hard and fast, his brow knit tight. "That's not what I -- "

Brendon smiles quickly, staring down at his menu and waving it off. "I know, it's okay."

"Brendon."

He doesn't react until he feels Ryan's hand sliding across the checkered tablecloth, fingers snaking around the bundles of silverware to close over Brendon's fist. Ryan's face is something new when Brendon looks up, something that doesn't look like Ryan at all, that maybe Brendon hasn't seen in years, or ever. It's a sort of wistful peace, his features kind and even, but not without something darker behind them.

Ryan squeezes his hand. "You'd be the _best_."

His brain hasn't evolved as much as he'd thought, because it's screaming predictably, _Why, then why, why not_ , but even despite it, Brendon can't help but smile back.

"Here we go!"

The woman -- Ruth, per nametag -- reappears like a ninja, carrying their tray of drinks and beaming as she arranges them on the table. Ryan's hand releases Brendon's on instinct, but Brendon can't complain because he can still feel the warmth from the touch, and Ruth's approving smile is enough to make up for it anyway.

"Thank you," Ryan tells her.

She smiles down at each of them in turn. "Ralph told me I shouldn't say this -- " She looks over her shoulder, suddenly, and Brendon follows her line of vision to a surly old man at the cash register -- evidently her husband, judging by the way they've both morphed into mirror versions of each other after however many decades -- staring back at her with squinty, warning eyes. "But I just have to tell you, you two are the cutest couple I've seen in here all month."

Brendon bites his lip against a smile, staring down at the table, and his heart skips a beat when he hears Ryan answer, "Thank you, ma'am."

"Can I ask how long you've been together?"

Brendon looks up, eyes boring into Ryan's. He hadn't planned this far ahead.

"Uh." Ryan glances at him for clues, but Brendon's coming up blank. "Um, three years?"

"That's so lovely!" Ruth coos, somewhere over the pounding of Brendon's heartbeat, because whoa, this is too real for any of his own fantasies to reconcile. "How did you meet?"

Oh, lord.

But Ryan's smiling, eyes darting between Brendon and Ruth. "Um..."

"He rescued me," Brendon pipes up.

Ryan's eyes finally settle at that, but they settle on Brendon and Brendon isn't ready for it, the way they glaze over, the way Ryan's smile fades but not entirely, and not in a bad way. It fades because the game is over, because Brendon just crossed the line. Unwarranted, without permission, Brendon made it _real_.

He distantly registers Ruth's charmed gasp, but his eyes are on Ryan's and Ryan's are on his and it's totally a movie moment; all they see is each other -- but Brendon isn't thinking in cinematic cliches: this is reality.

Ruth takes their orders and Brendon snaps out of it long enough to request a veggie burger, even though he hasn't had the discipline to stay away from meat for years now. But Ryan orders a veggie burger, and Brendon remembers what it's like, sitting there with your inferior meatless sandwich while others around you are chomping on beefy goodness. If he can make Ryan happy, whatever it takes, he'll do it. It's a pretty simple philosophy, but the results are worth every effort, every time.

"The fuck was that?" Brendon asks, laughing.

"Hey, whatever," Ryan holds up his hands in defeat, smiling at his napkin, "I'm just tryin' to make an old woman happy."

Brendon huffs through his smile, but it's not like he's got much of an argument.

"So..." Ryan starts slowly, staring out through the blinds with a little quirk of something on his lips, index finger tracing little patterns into a pile of spilt sugar on the table. "I rescued you?"

"Well... yeah. From my family. My whole _life_. I mean, think of where I'd be now if you hadn't let me in the band. I'd be finishing up my mission somewhere, probably getting married to some chick I wasn't in love with."

"It's not because of me," Ryan counters, and while he seems to believe it, he can't hide the disappointment in his tone. "You're strong. You don't take shit, and you're the most talented person I know. You would've gotten out anyway, somehow."

"Maybe," Brendon shrugs, looking up. "But I wouldn't have been happy."

Ryan doesn't react immediately. Their eyes lock, and you'd think it would be awkward, in a moment where nothing is certain and everything is pushing boundaries you never realized you needed -- but there's nothing uncomfortable in the way Ryan finally smiles at him, lopsided and easy, nothing contrived for a camera or effected for another's benefit.

"I meant it," Ryan says softly.

"What?"

His eyes drop to the table, but the smile is intact. "You'd be the best."

 

+++

 

This is _nuts_.

Brendon hasn't been up before eight since tour, and that was only for bus call, where he could climb into his bunk and sleep; or interviews, where he could sit half-asleep and let Jon do the talking, because Jon is awesome.

But this? Essentially prepping his body for Cirque de Soleil, before the god damned _soleil_ has even risen? Is _nuts_.

He stumbles downstairs half-asleep per the demands of his angry Sidekick alarm to find Ryan in the center of the living room, seated cross-legged on his mat, so clearly trying to pretend he isn't waiting. His face lights up when he sees Brendon, his smile brighter than the _sun which is so not even up yet_ , and he scrambles to his feet.

"I got out my extra mat," he says.

Brendon rubs at his eyes, trying to focus on his surroundings. Beach sounds are gone, replaced by rainforest insects and Native American flutes. Well. At least it's not [Gurmukhi](http://www.amazon.com/Grace-Snatam-Kaur-Khalsa/dp/B00068G8KC/ref=ntt_mus_ep_dpi_1) this time; Ryan does love his turban-sporting Sikhs.

He treks down the last couple of stairs, planting his sleep-wobbly self in the middle of the room, and finally, truly notices Ryan's face for the first time: glowing, hopeful, confidence fighting fear. It's the Ryan he remembers from six years ago. The Ryan he fell in --

Okay. He's awake.

Ryan's eyes shine as he grabs Brendon's hand, leading him to the extra mat, and Brendon follows, because he'd follow him anywhere.

 

+++

 

It's a record.

Six whole days, and he hasn't smoked up or had a single drink since the first night, just to be considerate. And to keep Ryan from drooling lustfully on furniture that isn't theirs. There's got to be some kind of award for this. Brendon makes a mental note to Google it.

"Come on, man."

"Stop it."

"One joint?"

"I am immune to your peer pressuring shenanigans."

Brendon blinks. "You are old, and also, not fun anymore."

Ryan shrugs, stretching out long and cat-like in the hammock while Brendon struggles to stuff giant batteries into the portable CD player perched in the grass-cum-sand just above the shoreline of the lake.

"I just don't think mind-altering substances are needed to have a good time," Ryan declares. Brendon's pretty sure it's verbatim from a high school anti-drug campaign.

"Seriously," Brendon sighs, popping Ryan's scratched up old Blink CD into the machine (belated, guilty-pleasure celebration of their reunion had been the evening's unanimous vote), before turning his attention to the little baggie of grassy glory, setting to work. "Who are you and what have you done with Ryan?"

"Ryan isn't home right now," Ryan croaks ominously in his best _Shining_ voice, and Brendon beams.

"All The Small Things" blares into the open air, as if reminding them both exactly who and where Ryan is: Ryan smiles despite himself, eyes falling shut to give his ears full attention to the music. He looks instantly younger, sillier and dorkier, like he's right back in high school with Spencer, and Brendon can't help but think how much freer he'd be still with a couple of beers behind him, a few lungfuls of smoke. Brendon knows Ryan has a point; they can totally rock out without the help of a bottle or a bong, and probably should more often, but if such blessings are available, why the hell not, while they're still young and have enough brain cells to spare?

"Come onnn," Brendon pleads, perching the newly lit joint in his mouth and crawling over to Ryan on his knees. His fingers tangle in the net of the hammock, shaking it desperately, just enough to rattle him but not enough to tip him over. Ryan flails anyway. "Come on, Ross. Pwease?"

Ryan sighs, but his eyes have zeroed in on the little object between Brendon's lips, and Brendon can hear Ryan's breath deepen, chasing a hint of the smell.

"Sooo good," Brendon breathes, his voice all sex and drugs, before exhaling a warm whoosh of smoke into Ryan's face.

"I." Ryan swallows, oh so hard as he stares at the joint. "I can't ever hope to achieve enlightenment by filling my body with impurities."

Brendon laughs so hard he falls over, and Ryan, to Brendon's delight, looks disappointed only to have lost the contact high.

"Are you shitting me, man?" Brendon cries. "That is like, the most ridiculous thing you have ever said in your entire life."

Ryan huffs.

"Seriously, are you serious right now?" Brendon goes on, well aware he's starting to approach the initial, babbling stage of his high. "Like, I don't really fucking care about being enlightened, I kinda just wanna get high. With my bestest friend. Ever. So come on. Smoke up with me pleeease?"

"Brendon..."

"Come on, it doesn't count if you're out of your zip code!"

Ryan does laugh at that, and he reaches a hand out, not touching Brendon but waving vaguely to order him closer. Brendon scrambles back to the hammock, sitting patiently on his heels.

"Shit," Ryan stutters weakly, breath shortening as Brendon breathes another puff into his face. "That's Beckett's, isn't it?"

"Mm-hmm."

"The stuff he gets from Jack, or the stuff he gets from Tony?"

"Tony."

"Fucking _hell_ ," Ryan chokes, reaching out to grab hold of Brendon's t-shirt and yank him close enough to pry the joint from his lips.

Brendon had never expected success to come so easily or feel so fucking sweet, but he's not about to stare at a gift horse's ass, or whatever it is. He's maybe a little stoned. The giddy shock of his triumph has him back on the ground, rolling over in giggles, but he makes sure to cling to enough sobriety that he can watch Ryan's reaction as he takes his first drag in over two months, eyes drifting shut and head tilted back in pleasure, neck exposed and Adam's apple straining against the skin as he traps the smoke in his lungs, holding it greedily until he starts to cough, and releases the gray swirls with no small dose of reluctance.

He leers dazedly down at Brendon, lips stretched into a sloppy, contented grin. "This is better than sex."

Brendon raises an eyebrow. "You sooo have not been having the right kind of sex, dude."

"Mm," Ryan hums, peering down at Brendon through the smoke, and it's astonishing how quickly he falls back into habit, the haughty, self-important way he balances the joint between his fingers; his chin held high, as if showing off his own pleasure. "And I suppose you're here to fix that? Take me to new heights of quivering ecstasy?"

Brendon smiles, watching him for a moment, slowly, through the rising warmth in his veins, just heated enough to coax out the words: "I once had Spencer begging for my mouth."

"What the _fuck_?" Ryan splutters, choking through his inhale and passing the joint back to Brendon after sparing it a brief look of reproach. "Seriously, what the fuck?"

Brendon shrugs, chuckling easily. "Last time we were here, that day we kept fucking up the gingerbread song and none of us could get it right and you kept yelling at us? He was really fucking stressed, I found him in his room, he was about to, like, implode. So I was just like, look, I'm good, I'll do it for you, you want? And he kinda flipped out at first but then I licked my lips and he was like, uh, sure, go for it. So I blew him."

To conclude, Brendon stretches out on the blanket, arms raised high over his head, and takes another drag, followed by a warm yawn. Ignoring Ryan's slack-jawed stare is a _blast_.

"You are full of shit," Ryan concludes. "That's fucking ridiculous."

Brendon meets his eyes, grinning. "Ask him."

Ryan arches his hips off the hammock, extracting his phone from his back pocket, and launches into a fury of texting. Brendon grins up at the stars through the cloud of mosquitos swarming around the lowest-hanging branches of the hammock's support trees. His eyes drift shut, his body settling happily into the sounds of insects and Ryan's fingers moving over the tiny keys.

After a few moments, Ryan's phone dings, and Ryan gasps furiously as he reads the text before shoving the phone at Brendon. Brendon scrolls up to see Ryan's original text, _wtf u fucking asshole u never told me bden gave u head_ , before reading Spencer's response:

_AHAHAHHAHA jealous?_

Brendon cackles.

"Write back 'I hate you'," Ryan orders, stealing the joint back while Brendon is busy typing. Another moment, another ding, and Brendon's increasingly foggy vision squints at the words.

_btw it wasnt head, that bitch can deepthroat_

Brendon lets the phone slip between his now boneless fingers, his body limp as he's consumed by silent laughter. He dimly registers Ryan leaning carefully over the side of the hammock to snatch up the phone, and soon enough Brendon hears a dial tone, and Spencer's voice.

" _'S'up, bitches._ "

"You're on speaker," Ryan announces dully. "He told me you begged for it."

Spencer laughs, and in the background, someone -- Jon?! -- laughs harder. " _I kinda did, when he started teasing. Seriously, Ryan, have you _seen_ his mouth?_ "

"Thanks, man!" Brendon salutes from the ground.

"Is Jon there?!" Ryan shrieks.

" _Yep_ ," Jon chirps. " _I stole Spence 'cause you guys abandoned him_."

" _Yeah, I was really lonely, you asshats,_ " Spencer adds. He sounds delightfully drunk.

"Well, why don't I just send Brendon over? I'm sure he'll make you feel better."

Jon laughs so hard the phone starts to vibrate from the resonance, and it sounds like Spencer has fallen over. " _Dude, dude_ ," Jon's calling to the floor, " _tell 'em about the time we made out on New Year's Eve and Haley and Cassie watched._ "

Somewhere in the background, Cassie is yelling something that sounds like approval, or possibly encouragement for round two.

Ryan glares at his phone. "I'm hanging up."

And he does, and Brendon doesn't say anything, because he can't fucking _breathe_ , and it's _awesome_.

"Am I seriously the only one who hasn't gotten any action from my own band?!" Ryan demands.

"Hey," Brendon grins lewdly, "we can fix that right now, Ross."

Ryan rolls his eyes, sighing as he nestles back into the hammock. His eyes settle contemplatively on the treetops above, at the little blinks of stars through the branches. "Jesus. I thought the craziest thing you'd ever done was getting folded into the pull-out sofa."

"Dude, no. The craziest was when Travis dared me to shave my head and I did."

"...Oh yeah. You're a dumbass."

"Um, says the guy who once thought combining a faux-hawk with a mullet was the sweetest move ever."

"It wasn't a mullet, it was a fringe!"

"Whatever, redneck."

"Blow me."

"Sorry, I only get on my knees for drummers."

It's a tiny flash of nothing, just Ryan's arm flailing out over the side of the hammock to whack at any part of Brendon he can reach, but the movement tips the white netting to just the right degree and he's instantly dumped overboard, landing flat on top of Brendon.

"Holy sh- _ommph_ ," Brendon huffs, his body betraying any attempts to regain oxygen by falling straight back into giggles. "Jesus, watch it, my balls are like, right there."

"Sorry, sorry!" Ryan laughs, rolling off to the side and patting Brendon's hip consolingly. One great thing about stoned Ryan is he tends to forget grudges almost as soon as they're formed. His hand keeps rubbing little circles into Brendon's hip as he smiles down, but when he tries to prop himself up, his balance fails and his hand slips right between Brendon's legs.

"Jesus fuck, Ryan -- "

"Oh my god, I'm sorry!" Ryan squeals, collapsing onto Brendon's chest as he vibrates through his laughter, but his hand seems to have gone limp, making no effort to move from where it's settled loosely against, Jesus Christ, Brendon's _dick_.

Brendon grits his teeth, eyelids fluttering. "...Ryan."

"Oh, right!" He retracts his hand quickly, fisting his fingers into Brendon's t-shirt instead as he giggles into Brendon's shoulder. "Sorry, I'm sorry, shit, I'm stoned. Weed is awesome. I love weed. Why did weed ever go away?"

"Um, because you went all Zen-freaky."

"Oh yeah. Hey, I'm sorry I like, cupped you. That was very... not cool."

"Uh, it's all good..." Brendon smiles nervously. "I mean, hey, y'know, knock yourself out."

Ryan lifts his head enough to smile at him, eyes unfocused and blissful. "You're such a whore."

"You're such a tease."

Ryan watches him with a careful consideration, before another smile sweeps over the first, wider but simpler, and he settles back against Brendon's shoulder.

"What?" Brendon asks softly.

Ryan presses closer. "Don't ever change."

 

+++

 

On the seventh day, Ryan rested.

Or, that was the plan. And Ryan, the little fucker, totally _does_ sleep in, but by the end of the week Brendon's internal clock has already already reprogrammed itself for _Yoga! Ass crack of dawn! Ryan's a psycho!_ (and no, really, that's how it's titled in his Sidekick), and he finds himself awake at eight a.m. sharp.

He drags himself downstairs because his body's already thrumming with energy despite the early hour, and he doesn't know what to do with it. This isn't normal. Maybe he should see a doctor. Either way, he's not about to do yoga by himself because Ryan would totally find out and he'd be condemned to it forever, so instead he flips on the TV and channel-surfs to VH1.

Beyonce greets him vibrantly, prancing around in black and white and sending out a cheer to the world of singletons. Brendon frowns. No matter how many times he watches this video (oh, shut up), he never feels empowered. Being alone blows.

Still, it's contagious, the prancing, and Brendon soon finds his hips moving of their own accord, side to side, lips mouthing the words as his head bops to the beat. It's only seconds before he's shoving an ottoman out of the way and letting the music carry him around the room, following the dancers' movements, and it's not like he's ever done this sober, but he's seen it enough times to pretty much know what he's doing. He wiggles around like a pro, shakes his ass, just getting into it when he hears a low, rumbling chuckle behind him.

He spins around so fast he almost runs into the side of the sofa, and there's Ryan at the bottom of the stairs, leaning sleepily against the railing, arms crossed over his chest and grinning stupidly, and Brendon suddenly feels heated and exposed, in nothing but a pair of bright American Appareal undies, skin flushed from the sudden exertion.

He crosses his arms right back, smirking at Ryan with every bit of his dignity in place. "Yeah? And?"

Ryan sighs, shaking his head as he steps into the room. "Brendon, Brendon, Brendon."

Brendon huffs, cocking one hip to the side.

"Never thought I'd say this," Ryan starts dramatically, "but, I gotta kick you out. You're too gay for my band."

"Oh?" Brendon queries, sauntering forward with all the gay he can muster. "I'm. Too gay for your _band_ ," he starts singing, if it even resembles anything of the original song. "Too gay for your _hand_. Too gay for this _land_."

Ryan looks close to laughing, but he bites it back, giving Brendon a once-over. "Nice panties."

"They're not _panties_!"

"They're pink, that's automatic panties, right there."

"They're not pink, they're _magenta_!"

Ryan snorts. "Right. And you're not gay, you're just... phallically inclined."

Brendon diplomatically allows Ryan several seconds to plan his escape, but Ryan's apparently too dumb to sense what's coming, and when Brendon snatches up a throw pillow and sideswipes him with it, Ryan actually topples over onto the couch.

"Teach you to -- walk in on me while I'm -- _getting my groove on_!" Brendon threatens between blows with the pillow. He snatches another one from the floor and works it easily into his assault, and Ryan's too sleepy and giggly to fight back, resigning himself to the attack.

"You're gonna make me pancakes," Brendon decides, finally retracting his pillows.

"Fuck you, I am not."

"You owe me pancakes, motherfucker."

"How?!"

"I woke up _without my alarm_ for yoga that we are _not doing this morning_!"

Ryan falls back against the cushions, his eyes crinkled up in laughter. "We can still do it."

"Fuck that shit, I want pancakes." Brendon whacks him again, the corner tassles of the cushion sweeping over Ryan's hair. "Go."

"I'll burn down the kitchen!" Ryan protests, even as he's climbing to his feet and padding toward the kitchen.

"I'll supervise."

"Brendon, you couldn't supervise a corpse."

"Well, we'll soon find out, if you don't make me some pancakes."

"Threats!"

Brendon follows close on his heels, bouncing up and down with his hands on Ryan's shoulders as he guides him the rest of the way. Ryan's smiling as he digs out the mixing bowl and a pan, and Brendon doesn't think about anything, not how this is over his head, not how he's so far in there's no room left to escape. He doesn't think of Shane's words, because no matter no matter what's holding him up, in the end it's still Ryan who'll bring him down.

In the end, he'll fall every time.

 

+++

 

Drumming is exhausting. No wonder Spence needed a blowjob.

But it was good, for two hours it was really, really good: just Brendon behind the old kit in the music room while Ryan retreated upstairs to write; just Brendon pounding the hell out of it and letting it steal all the tension he hadn't known was there until it just. Wasn't.

He's three steps from his bedroom when he hears Ryan's phone chime softly from the table in a corner of the hallway. He picks it up, flipping it open to see _1 new message from Spencer_.

It's not a conscious attempt to pry; they've all read each other's emails, opened each other's mail at one point or another without conflict; their slight leaning towards co-dependency as a band is something they've come to accept; but he still isn't expecting the words laid out in glowing black font.

It doesn't make sense, the message, and he scrolls up the trail of texts to find the first.

_found what you're looking for yet?_

_still not sure what that is_ , Ryan had replied.

_yes you are. thats why youre scared to find it_

Something is jumping around in Brendon's chest, heating his cheeks, but he can't break it down enough to make sense of it. It could mean anything and everything and nothing; maybe there's a bug in Ryan's room and he can't figure out where it went. Brendon wouldn't put it past him.

He closes the phone, shuffling down the hall to Ryan's room and rapping lightly on the open door. "Hey."

Ryan's bunched up on his bed, knees to his chest and his notebook resting atop them. He smiles, his eyes bright under the lull of soft light from the desk lamp across the room. "Hey."

"Um, I think you have a message."

"Oh, thanks. Just leave it on the dresser."

Brendon nods, setting the phone down and turning back to the door. "Sleep well."

"Hey."

Brendon turns around, and Ryan's already laying his notebook aside, shimmying down until he's flat on the bed.

"C'mere, you have to see this."

Brendon steps forward, crawling onto the bed and sprawling out before he realizes what he's been called to see. "Oh, fuck, I totally forgot."

"Right?"

"Awesome."

His eyes relax as they settle overhead on the massive, ceiling-wide skylight above the bed. He hadn't spent much time in Ryan's room last time, hadn't really been invited to, and it was too easy to forget the view from here at night, the blanket of stars set against a crystal-clear backdrop the definition of midnight blue, cloudless and infinite.

"Isn't it weird," Ryan starts, "how nothing lasts?"

"Jeez, Ross. Morbid much?"

Ryan pinches him. "I mean, seriously. Even stars burn out. The ones we're looking at right now could've died ages ago."

"Yeah." Brendon shrugs, the motion causing his t-shirt to bunch up, and the skin above his waistband feels suddenly cold. "Y'know, just 'cause nothing's lasted so far in your life doesn't mean nothing ever will."

Ryan turns to look at him, smiling. "Am I that transparent?"

"Yes." Brendon smiles back. "I know when you're thinking about her. When all the little gears are working in your head, trying to figure out all the reasons you fucked up."

Ryan sighs. "She was so... I don't know, she made it so easy. She never expected me to be anything I wasn't, never asked me to be anything I couldn't... never wanted more from me than what I could give. It was easier being with her than being alone."

"So why'd you end it?"

"I..." He pauses, and Brendon can feel how he's searching for the right words, trying to extract as much truth as he can. "Just because it was easy doesn't mean it was right."

Brendon nods. "Okay. Good."

Up high, a shooting star streams across the square of sky above them, and Brendon thinks of how alive it looks, how free. How clearly it seems to know where it's headed.

"Do you believe in the afterlife? Like, reincarnation?" he asks.

"I... think I kind of have to," Ryan says. "I mean... god, if I died today... there's too much I still want to do, too many opportunities I've missed. Things I'm... not ready to let go of yet."

Brendon draws a slow, even breath, as quietly as he can, and turns to face Ryan's profile. "Things, or people?"

Ryan turns to him. "You'd be there."

"I'd be where?"

"In the next life. I'd find you."

"Yeah?"

Ryan smiles softly. "Well, we've gotta keep the band together."

"Hey now, I dunno if I want to spend _two_ lifetimes in your little emo circus. I think next time I'll be a French courtesan."

Ryan laughs. "Very classy."

Brendon grins. "And you'd be the British bohemian who rescues me off the streets, right?"

"Well obviously, since I'm so good at rescuing you."

Brendon's smile softens, and it feels full circle when the words come to him -- or at least, part of the circle. He doesn't think they've made it all the way around yet.

He brushes one finger over the inside of Ryan's wrist, light and barely there, and says, "Don't ever change."

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The boys' quotes come from [here](http://www.partneryoga.com/AboutPartnerYoga.html), but there are whole books about it if you're interested. And I vetoed the poll results; sorry. I should've explained the scene in question is meant to be sexy; I kinda forgot that when I was thinking up other songs. But I think it worked. P.S. Everyone wave hi to Ryro; he's [reading this fic](http://twitter.com/thisisryanross/status/1280984908).
> 
>  **Dedication:** [](http://stereotypeloser.livejournal.com/profile)[](http://stereotypeloser.livejournal.com/)**stereotypeloser**

**3.**

 

 

_Something carries Brendon to the kitchen, but it's not his feet._

_At least, it doesn't feel like it. His body's going through the motions, muscle memory strong enough to lead him out of the music room, down the hall and around the corner, where Jon's sprawled in a chair at the table next to Ryan -- **Ryan who just kissed me** \-- while Spencer's scooping hopefully edible things onto plates and setting them down in front of the four chairs. Jon's got his hands in his lap, twiddling his thumbs, a lazy, absent for-no-reason smile just blossoming on his lips, while Ryan's staring down with immense concentration, slowly scooping up spoonfuls of mashed potatoes, only to drop the globs back to his plate every time._

_Great, so, at least nothing's going to be remotely awkward, at all, ever._

_"Dig in," Spencer orders with a sigh, taking his seat. "Two days left, last night of kitchen duty, never cooking for you losers again, enjoy it while you can."_

_But his voice is bright and fond, spirits lifted as their mountain adventure draws to an overdue close, and Jon offers up a heartfelt, "Amen."_

_Brendon isn't sure what part of that Jon is amen-ing; Jon's just agreeable that way. But it's not exactly Brendon's top priority as he takes the last open seat across from Ryan, **Ryan who just kissed me** , and pushes his glasses up on the bridge of his nose to better inspect his plate. Jon grills fantastic chicken, always has, and Spencer's mashed potatoes are his mom's recipe, which Brendon's pretty sure includes half a teaspoon of **magic**. All biological and conditioned logic would insist that Brendon's mouth be watering, his stomach growling in anticipation, his eyes glazing over at the sight. Instead, his mind is running like a VCR, flashing through rapid images, altering between rewind, fast-forward, and pause when he gets to a memory that seems to mean something now. Every time he crossed the stage, watching Ryan's wide eyes lock with his under the harsh, blinding spotlights; every time he leaned in and missed, and how many times he wished, just once, Ryan wouldn't be quick enough. All the times on the bus Ryan would let Brendon fall asleep against him; those precious few times Ryan might accidentally fall asleep against Brendon. The time he carried Ryan to his bed after Ryan passed out from exhaustion, stayed there with him till morning, curled up against his side. Those rare, rare moments Ryan's hand would slide up from where it was splayed genially across Brendon's back, fingers starting to stroke the little hairs at the base of Brendon's neck while Ryan went on and on about chord progression or rare B-sides or, well, I think we should play it like this, but what do you think, B? All the years, all the thousands of moments when it could've happened, should've, so close, almost there, never quite, always short, never right._

_And here, outside his head, there's chicken and mashed potatoes, normal as ever, when clearly the universe has flipped; when there's as much **wrong** now as there was **right** in the kiss, and Brendon can't breathe._

_"Mm, so good," Jon praises through a mouthful. "I make the best sauce ever."_

_"And your modesty is unsurpassed," Spencer notes with a wink._

_"Just like my sexual prowess."_

_Spencer snorts._

_Ryan (who **kissed me** ) scoops up another uneven spoonful, turns his spoon upside down, letting gravity coax the white lump back to his plate._

_"Don't play with your food, son," Jon orders._

_Ryan's eyes dart up briefly, warning._

_Brendon can feel Spencer's eyes on him, can feel them darting between him and Ryan, sharp and considering before he chooses his words._

_"What's wrong?" Spencer asks no one in particular._

_Brendon stabs a square of chicken and stuffs it in his mouth, chomping roughly._

_"Not hungry," Ryan mumbles._

_Spencer takes a breath. "You guys aren't allowed to fight. We're leaving in two days, there's no reason left to fight."_

_"They can always find a reason," Jon points out, though there's a smile in his voice. "But hey, seriously, no fighting. What if we die on the way back? Think how bad you'll feel. You'll be like, crying emo ghost tears and then they'll just go right through you 'cause you're a ghost, which would really suck, so then you'd just cry harder."_

_Spencer grins._

_"We're not fighting," Ryan says._

_The silence indicates otherwise, despite the words' truth._

_On his fourth bite of chicken in ten seconds, Brendon chokes._

_"I'm gonna go for a walk," he says once he's recovered -- quiet, quick, before anyone can pay him too much attention. He carries his plate to the sink and rinses the remnants off, stuffing them down into the garbage disposal before propping the plate up in the other half of the sink, and turns back to address the table. "Anyone's welcome to come."_

_Spencer has his back to Brendon, but Jon and Ryan can see him head-on, and Jon's the first to look up, something flashing over his eyes and Brendon worries he looks the way he feels: heated and dizzy._

_Ryan's eyes dart up for half a second, wide and purposely shut off, but his efforts are weak and Brendon can almost read something. Just... something. And then it's gone, and Ryan turns back to his plate, takes his first legitimate bite, no hesitation._

_Outside, it's cold, at least compared to day. The hint of a chill settles into the early September evening air as he winds through the coarsely beaten path around the lake. It feels strange, still being in Nevada but missing the dry heat of Vegas; being in his home state but not _home_ \-- familiarity but lack thereof. If he were Ryan, he'd insist on metaphorical significance. But he's not, he's only Brendon, and he doesn't want this to become clouded by literary devices, cloaked in any forced, external meaning. What happened has meaning enough that he can't even decode, without infusing more._

_"Sorry I'm not Ryan."_

_His reactions are a little delayed, and when he finally spins around, Jon's only a few feet away, walking toward him, his smile kind but careful._

_Brendon turns back to the water, winding up and hurling another stone out across the lake, as hard and far as he can throw. He'll feel it in his shoulder tomorrow, but he doesn't care._

_"What makes you think I was waiting for Ryan?"_

_Ryan who **kissed me** , holy fuck, fuck, **fuck** , and Brendon just had to go and chow down on Jon's stupid chicken and Spencer's stupid mashed potatoes, and he'll never remember what Ryan tasted like, ever again._

_Jon answers with a hand on Brendon's shoulder, smoothing out the tension he finds there. For all Brendon's own words, all the ones that tumble out unbidden throughout the day, he's always responded best to none at all._

_He draws in a breath and pushes it out through his nose, fast and sharp. "He kissed me."_

_Jon stiffens, and even through the minimal contact and the layer of fabric, Brendon can feel it._

_"...What?"_

_"Kissed me," Brendon chirps casually, turning to face Jon. "Ryan. Kissed me. Climbed into my lap, cupped my face. Tongues, shared oxygen, the works."_

_Jon's mouth slowly succumbs to gravity, falling open. "I. **When?** "_

_Brendon shrugs, bending down to pick up another stone and launching it into the water. "Before dinner."_

_"Jesus," Jon breathes. "What -- how -- why did -- "_

_"Don't know," Brendon shoots for casual, but he can feel his chest constricting, his lungs clenching and his breath going staccato, and he stuffs his hands in his pockets, trying to keep grounded. "Spencer called us to dinner and he pulled away and I tried to make him wait but he wouldn't, and now he's gonna pretend it never happened, and I'm not, 'cause I can't, Jon, okay, I'm not this -- motherfucking pillar of fucking repression, and you know what, if he regrets it, he's fucking forcing himself to, because you don't know, okay, and I do, I felt it, that wasn't some fucking -- **experiment** , Jon! He wasn't high, he wasn't drunk, or depressed, or mentally incapacitated in some way, he kissed me because he wanted to, I fucking felt it, and he can't fucking do this, it's not **fair** , it's not -- "_

_"Hey, hey, Bden, come here," Jon soothes, his arms wrapping loosely around Brendon's tiny, shivering frame until Brendon goes limp and lets Jon tug him closer, tighter, flush against him. "Shh, you're okay, it'll be okay."_

_"Won't," Brendon protests weakly, cringing at the cracked, whiny pitch of his voice, but allowing his head to fit into the curve of Jon's neck all the same. "It's not fair. It's not fucking fair."_

_"I know, B. I know."_

_Brendon presses closer, letting himself get lost in the smell of Jon's aftershave: something explicitly non-Ryan. "Fix it?"_

_Jon squeezes him tighter, huffing a bleak, breathless puff of laughter before pulling back and holding Brendon at arm's length. "I can't."_

_"You fix everything."_

_"I... I think this one's yours, man. You gotta talk to him."_

_"What if he won't talk to me?"_

_Jon's eyes drift out over the water, like the answer lies somewhere under the surface, swimming in the depths. "He will."_

_Brendon sighs._

_"He will," Jon repeats, stronger, as he turns back, eyes calm and soft-brown on Brendon's sparked, chaotic ones. "Maybe... not now. Maybe not any time soon. But someday, he'll talk to you."_

_It's hard to be skeptical, hard not to believe it, with Jon looking at him like he is, but Brendon manages. He scuffs the toe of his shoe on the ground, over a patch of grass that's thrived through the path's rocky dirt surface._

_"Sometimes it seems like I'm someone I've never met."_

_"Sounds like a lyric," Jon smiles, bumping their shoulders together. "I remember you who are."_

_Brendon looks up. "Don't forget, okay?"_

_Their hands link together, and Jon shakes them a bit for emphasis, his fingers squeezing tight around Brendon's._

_"Never could."_

 

+++

 

"Holy mother of god."

Ryan's head whips around, only narrowly missing Brendon's as Brendon straightens from where he'd been bent over Ryan's shoulder, snooping in the coffee table book Ryan has laid open in front of him on the floor.

"Brendon, fuck! Don't fucking creep up on me like that."

Brendon sniffles through his half-awake daze, wrinkling his nose and plopping down on the mat beside Ryan, leaning into his space to get a better look at the horrors laid across the spread of pages, and shivers happily at the sheet of sun that washes over his back. "Dude, whoa."

"Whoa what? Fucking pussy."

"Look, the only way you're getting me into [that position](http://www.jacobfelder.com/balance7.jpg) is if there's some kind of promise of sex."

"We're not starting _there_ , you moron," Ryan sighs, flipping the page to the beginning of the chapter proclaiming "Partner Work" in six-billion-point Times New Roman.

Brendon snorts theatrically.

"Not _that_ kind of partners," Ryan huffs and scoots a full inch away from Brendon, just for effect. "Partner yoga can be really beneficial, especially if you're having trouble with certain postures."

Brendon pushes back into his space, curling a hand firmly around the book and peering down at the introductory text. "'In partner yoga, much attention is given to the importance of touch and intimacy.' ...Sounds like that kind of partners to me, man."

Ryan jerks his book away, serving Brendon with a dry glare before turning back to the page, pointing his index finger to a block of words. "'Some poses challenge your balance, strength and flexibility, others require your total trust and surrender. Each exercise and breathing technique uses the power of the partner dynamic to achieve more than one person could alone.' So there."

"Total trust and surrender..." Brendon nods thoughtfully. "Kinky."

Ryan rolls his eyes. "Go back to bed."

"Oh shut up, I'll do it."

"No."

"Yes!"

"No cracks?"

Brendon bites his lip. He is just _not this strong_ , okay.

"Oh, Jesus," Ryan sighs. "No jokes? No quips? Is there anything you can't turn sexual on a sixth-grade level?"

"Nothing. But seriously, come on, let's do it."

Pulling himself to his feet, Ryan makes a show of adjusting his mat, smoothing out the wrinkles Brendon's presence had caused before shoving Brendon over to his own mat. "Don't feel me up."

"Wha -- I -- it's your idea to have all our limbs tangled and you tell _me_ not to feel you up?!"

Some deep-seated amusement has the corners of Ryan's mouth trying to curl, but Ryan doesn't answer. Brendon really has to make a mental note of how effective (read: annoying) that is. He'll have to try it sometime, if he can scrape up the discipline.

"All right, why don't we just go through our usual set, and then once we get to the floor stuff, we can try these."

Ryan gestures to the open book, and nothing on this page looks too much like it might snap Brendon's spine in two, so he consents.

Over the past couple years, having somehow made it to twenty-one and beyond, Brendon's developed what he considers a pretty solid interpretation of himself; a functional, if imperfect, self-awareness that serves him well enough to say he knows who he is, what he wants, what makes him and breaks him. He's got more control over himself than he did even three, four years ago: more strength to fight urges, to keep from succumbing to desires that aren't, well, succumbable.

And yet.

The two most deflating words in the language.

And yet here he is. He's learned to focus, breathe, become atuned to nothing but the nuances of his body for a whole hour of the day. He's made it a week of stretching himself out like a scrunchie, twisting into pretzelly shapes right beside Ryan "One Scrap Of Fabric Away From Naked!Yoga" Ross, _before_ the first meal of the day, even before his daily round of jerking off in the shower, and he never once fell apart. He only craved pretzels four times, only stole a glimpse at Ryan's ass twice, and only felt his dick twitch once, and that. That, my friend, is _growth_.

Or something.

Whatever it was, it's gone.

Now, all that exists in his head isn't his breath, isn't hard focus on the lengthening of his limbs, but instead it's what's coming, the impending slide of Ryan's hands across his shoulders, the brush of their skin as they'll lean into the stretch, the most intimate deliberate contact Ryan will ever have initiated with him. So, y'know, no pressure.

Now, it's sixteen-year-old mornings, setting the alarm five minutes early every day because you know, inevitably, you'll be waking up hard to a less than faceless image carried over from your dreams; now, it's Spencer's basement, Monday-Thursday-Friday-Sunday, the debate over whether to start the evening with a tablet of Ritalin: it'll make it easier to focus, but there's a high risk that focus will slide from the music over to the curve of Ryan's neck arching out of his pink Fall Out Boy tee as he bends over his guitar; the way he rubs at the calluses on his fingertips and bites his lip when he fucks up a chord, leaving his mouth red and swollen by the end of the night. Now, it's the first time walking toward Ryan in front of five thousand people, scripted poetry on your lips and wondering what would happen if you both... just...

"Ready?"

Brendon's balance betrays him, and he trips right out of triangle pose, landing with a thud on the mat.

Ryan smiles. "You okay?"

"Hmm? Yeah. Good."

Ryan settles himself on the floor, legs folded in some loosely lotus-based position, and Brendon follows, letting himself be pushed and pulled at until he's situated suitably enough for Ryan's liking. Ryan doesn't tell him what comes next, and Brendon doesn't have to ask. It's a simple stretch, arms spread, head dropped and eyes shut, only now his head drops to Ryan's, their foreheads and knees touching, and Brendon's all surrender from here; all he can do is follow Ryan's lead, let Ryan close his hands around Brendon's and lift them up, hold them out and splay their palms against each other, fingers spread wide, and all that's left to do is breathe.

The one thing he can't do.

"Keep your fingers out," Ryan says suddenly, quiet and gentle, and Brendon tenses a little as awareness returns to him, only just now realizing he'd let his fingers start to curl down over Ryan's, entwining them and making this into something it absolutely _isn't_ , and Brendon's never been more grateful for closed eyes, because he doesn't think he'd be able to handle Ryan's on him now, on the blush that's undeniably going viral across his face.

"Sorry," he whispers.

Ryan pushes forward, just a millimeter, his forehead pressing that one degree harder against Brendon's: acknowledgment.

"Hey," Ryan whispers back, "breathe."

He's knows his mind's supposed to be clear, that's the _point_ , but he hasn't mastered the art of emptying his thoughts just yet, and one slips in before he can stop it: six years prior, huddled against the bathroom door with Pete Wentz (PETE WENTZ) one thin wall away, waiting for them to prove themselves. Ryan couldn't seem to keep his head attached to his body, or his fingers attached to his brain, or something, and he wasn't breathing but for short, choppy little puffs, so Brendon backed him up against the bathroom door, cornering all the risks right alongside it, and weaved his hands into Ryan's. Ryan clung to the lifeline, fingers squeezing hard around Brendon's, their clammy foreheads mashed together, and Brendon whispered, "Breathe."

Ryan tried, couldn't, so Brendon did. In, out, deep and slow, their mouths so close it was like he was breathing for both of them. It took a minute, solid, no less than, before Ryan picked up the rhythm, started claiming his own oxygen, drew in the air at Brendon's pace, and released with him. In. Out. Again. Two minutes, three. With Pete waiting outside the door, probably wondering if they'd fallen into the toilet.

"Breathe," Ryan whispers. "I've got you."

Brendon thinks, _You always have_ , and breathes.

 

+++

 

It's like walking in on your parents having sex.

Only. Not, at all. It's like... walking in on one parent, fully clothed, doing nothing that has anything to do with sex (traditionally, dancing has everything to do with sex; however, this isn't _dancing_ ), but it's totally just as embarrassing (and Brendon would know, oh god).

It's the kind of thing that even film couldn't do justice, let alone words. Luckily words fail Brendon, anyway, the moment he steps through the door to find something blasting over the stereo that really should not be blasting, anywhere, ever. There's a handful of shadows tripping over the walls, guiding Brendon toward the kitchen, where the horror has evidently centered.

It's Internet-wide knowledge that Ross's dance moves are about as chill as those of an elephant seal, but apparently no one had realized that was only the tip of some monstrously offensive iceberg of badness that would make Gabe Saporta weep. Metaphors aren't really Brendon's strong point, but he's pretty sure an iceberg would be better at this than Ryan, come to think of it.

But this does not seem to be of great concern to Ryan, who's standing in front of the counter by the sink in actual, honest-to-god boy jeans and a Bob Dylan tee, spotlighted by a glow of afternoon sun, chopping up carrots and wiggling his ass stiffly back and forth, occasionally breaking from his carrots to bobble-head his neck from side to side or perform a twirl that inevitably ends with his hand colliding painfully with the edge of the fridge.

Brendon can't watch. He's got to stop. Something, he's got to -- something --

"Is this Coldplay?!" Brendon yells just loud enough to be heard above the music, which turns out to be pretty fucking loud, even for him, and the shock of noise intruding into Ryan's oasis of _badness, oh my god_ , is enough to jerk him around, pieces of carrot flying across the kitchen as the knife slides across the counter and clatters into the sink.

He glares heartily at Brendon before snatching up the stereo remote and aiming it toward the living room, punching furiously at the buttons. The volume settles, falling into a soft, pleasant lull as Brendon smiles wider, wickedly glad for the chance to speak freely.

"Don't _even_ ," Ryan warns.

"You're dancing to fucking _Coldplay_?!" Brendon shrieks.

"It's not Coldplay, it's Silverchair! And I wasn't dancing!"

Brendon narrows his eyes suspiciously. "One of those statements is true. But this is totally not Silverchair, dude."

"It's new Silverchair."

"It's _crap_."

"Says the man who made up a song about rabies this morning in the shower."

Brendon beams, bending over to pick up a piece of carrot and chuck it at Ryan. "'One bite from a furry little fella, next thing you know you're foamin' like Old Yeller!'"

"Illumuinating," Ryan responds dryly. "The fuck are you doing back so soon?"

"Grocery store was closed." Brendon's lips ease into a smirk as he saunters closer, despite the cautionary gleam in Ryan's eyes. "Was I... interrupting something?"

"You wish," Ryan snarls, chucking the carrot right back at him. "I was making _dinner_. I was gonna surprise you with dinner that wasn't burned and wasn't take-out and wasn't under the watchful eye of some old lady who thinks we're fucking. So, fuck you, go play outside and let me finish."

He turns back to his pile of veggies, snatching the knife from the sink and proceeding not exactly to chop, but sort of... _saw_ at the carrot like a tree, his supporting fingers dangerously close to the blade. The rush of warmth low in Brendon's stomach at the thought of Ryan's gesture, planning this just to surprise him, is eclipsed only by the crippling fear of Panic being down a guitarist if the knife should happen to falter half a millimeter.

"Ryan, Ryan, hey, whoa," he protests, stepping up behind him and reaching around to pry the utensil from his spidery fingers, damp from the faucet but warm from exertion. "I really don't feel like driving to the emergency room, considering it's like, an hour away, and you're so skinny you'll probably bleed to death by the time we get there."

Ryan huffs, trying to twist around but finding himself essentially trapped by Brendon's arms. It's kind of a surprise to Brendon too, how close they are; realizing that if Ryan backed up an inch, his ass would be touching --

Well.

And that awareness is all it takes for Ryan to stop squirming, simply bracing his hands on the edge of the counter and keeping his eyes focused on the brightly colored pile of poorly chopped food in front of him. Brendon works hard to push back the disappointment, all the images of what it might've been like to fight for Ryan's submission, to pin him against the counter, hips flush against Ryan's ass, Brendon's fingers wrapped around Ryan's wrists until he surrendered both blade and carrot, neck exposed as he bent his head in defeat.

... _Jesus_.

He thinks, briefly, of all their morning practice, how he's felt the difference, the way his mind is clearer, calmer, the way he's better able to control his impulses and emotions, and he wonders when he started falling into these old thought patterns, and how much more intense they'd be _without_ practice, whether he'd be here right now with his dick straining against his jeans, hands shaking for how much he wanted.

But he's better. He's here, and he's better, and that's old, that's years ago, and he can do this, and not have it mean anything it can't.

"So," he starts, his voice low and strained. "You want to hold it like this."

His left hand covers Ryan's, guiding it to the carrot, and pressing until their fingers are closed over the length. He imagines Ryan's shudder, he knows, but not his own.

"And -- " Swallow, breathe, repeat. "You need to grab the knife like this, with your thumb braced under -- yeah, like that. And we're not lumberjacks, okay, so we just want to make a clean cut, smooth... ready? One, two, three."

Ryan's quick to learn, letting Brendon's hands guide him to the proper positions, and they make one slice together: quick, sharp, even. A flat circle of carrot rolls across the cutting board, and from the corner of his eye, he can see Ryan smile.

"Good," he praises quietly, lifting his hands and backing away. Ryan turns around, tension vanishing into the space between them, and directs the smile to Brendon. It's a little wry, a little bleak, but it's there.

"Is there anything you can't do better than me?"

Brendon shrugs, smiling sheepishly. "I didn't really have friends when I was young, so my mom made me help her in the kitchen."

"That is the most pitiful thing I've ever heard. No wonder you're gay."

"Hey! Spence told me you guys used to dress up in his mom's clothes!"

Ryan visibly _blanches_. "We were _ten_!"

"Whatever, Ross." He dodges their perfect slice of carrot soaring across the room.

"Get out of my kitchen so I can surprise you with dinner, asshole."

"Yes ma'am."

The slotted spoon is harder to dodge, but Brendon manages, ducking and cackling as he scrambles around the corner, tearing down the hall and yelling over his shoulder, "I bet you look gorgeous in heels!"

Ryan doesn't venture a comeback, and Brendon manages to run into the screen door on his escape, head filled with a dizzying rationale for Ryan's silence: he totally _does_ look gorgeous in heels, and the little fucker knows it.

He barely registers Ryan's call of, "That's coming out of my deposit, loser!" as he sits on the floor, prying broken screen from his hair and wondering when his carefully cultivated universe stopped making sense.

 

+++

 

Brendon is never not amazed at the repertoire Ryan maintains for variations of the word _No_.

"No way."

"Come on."

"Fuck no."

"Dude, it's only fair."

"Forget it. And what's _fair_ , how is any of this fair?!"

"Because! I'm... I'm _giving back_ , Ross."

Ryan scrunches his face up, watching in utter disinterest as Brendon throws a particularly poofy piece of popcorn up into the air and catches it on his tongue.

"Giving _what_ back?"

Brendon lets his weight drift backward, the sofa catching him as he sprawls wide and shoves another clump of fluffy white goodness into his mouth. "Yoga. You help me find inner peace, I help you not embarrass yourself every time you go out for the rest of your life."

"Hm," Ryan grunts distractedly, setting down his half-empty bottle of wine (hey, Brendon needed a _little_ help here, and his out-of-your-zip-code rule seemed to stick harder than he could've hoped), and turning back to his guitar, where he absently plucks a melancholy A flat. It's one of Brendon's favorite, happiest notes; only Ryan could make it sound melancholy. "Yeah, no."

"I'll do laundry for a week."

"No you won't."

"If I don't, you can hide all my candy."

Ryan doesn't look up, but the energy around him is sparking, the gears shifting almost visibly in his head. "One song."

"What?"

"You get one song. Go."

The "go" is superfluous, as Brendon's already up and hovering at his laptop by the fireplace, hooking up speakers from the stereo and scrolling through his iTunes as Ryan circles the room, drawing the blinds and peering dubiously out into the black expanse of woods enveloping them. Brendon's cell vibrates against his ass, and he pries it from his back pocket, smiling as Jon's name pops up on the display.

_whats up_

He types back, _teachin ross to dance_ , because really, that's enough.

A few seconds later Jon buzzes back with _bahahahahah spence says take pics_ , and Brendon chuckles and tosses the phone at Ryan. He smiles, hearing Ryan punching furiously at the keys in response while Brendon scans over the playlists, and knows he's already won.

"All right, now listen," he starts over the deceptively slow drum line intro of his chosen track, clapping his hands together as he meanders toward Ryan, who's standing stiff in the center of the room, hands in his pockets and lips pursed in preemptive resistance. But Brendon's known him long enough, and he can spot the birth of a smile beneath the grimace, just waiting for an invitation to surface. "Dancing is a _language_ , Ross. That means no talking."

On cue, DeLeon's velvety hum croons through the speakers.

_The lips that slip..._

"Oh my _god_!" Ryan half doubles over, the smile exploding into genuine laughter. "You have got to be kidding me."

"Hey! No talking."

"No way. No bands we've _shared a bus with_ , that's just too weird."

"Dude, it's dancing, not sex. Get over it."

But even his own claim sounds like a lie. Dancing _is_ sex. Dancing is... fucking _musical sex_ , everyone knows it, Brendon sure as fuck knows it, and anyone who's seen him dance, really dance -- Ryan included -- knows it, too.

But Ryan shuts up, enough for Brendon to shimmy up to him and rest his hands lightly over Ryan's nonexistent hips, his own curvy ones swaying instinctively to the beat.

"Now I say it every night on stage, but apparently it hasn't sunk in," he starts. "This is about the _hips_. The hips are your center, okay, this is where everything starts from, this is where you hold your rhythm. But you can't think about it, okay, this is where you've gotta shut off your brain and let your body do the thinking."

Ryan rolls his eyes. "I'm pretty sure your brain's been shut off for a few years now."

Brendon's fingers instantly tighten on Ryan's hips, and the circumstances, the _allowance_ that Ryan's granted him, give him the courage to inch forward, pressing their bodies together, lips hovering hot at Ryan's ear as he whispers, "No talking."

Even above the bass pumping through him, he can feel Ryan swallow.

"No thinking," he whispers, his mouth still dangerously close to skin, "just movement. You don't move with the music; you let the music move _you_. All your books talk about letting go; this is it. Just close your eyes and... let go."

As he says it, his hands tighten, slowly starting to move Ryan's hips from side to side, matching his own. Their bodies are aligned well enough for Ryan to follow him, and there's resistance, of course there is. Ryan's complying well enough to being taught, but his movements are stiff, forced from a lifetime of practice (or lack thereof). But Brendon's grip is perfect, just the right mix of controlling and loose, encouraging Ryan to take the initiative but giving him the push he needs to know what he's taking.

And it just. It happens. Like that sparkling moment after hours of staring at a math problem, when the light suddenly explodes behind your eyes and you see it, clear as day. It's a little slower, not really a moment but a series of moments, the _union_ of moments, when the stick up Ryan's ass seems to release its hold on him. He's moving more and more on his own, freer, and Brendon's grip should logically begin to loosen, but the movements Ryan's letting himself succumb to, not so surprisingly, send something hot rushing through Brendon's blood that's nothing to do with alcohol, and all he can do is hold on tighter.

They're face to face but their eyes are closed -- at least Brendon's are, but he trusts Ryan to follow, without even considering why. But by the second chorus it hits him that his control has evaporated; that Ryan's moving on his own, and Brendon has become the follower.

He only gets about a hundredth of a second to process it, because the moment the second chorus crashes down around them, Ryan's hands tighten on Brendon's hips (when did they even _get_ there?) and Brendon's being spun around, his back to Ryan's chest, one of Ryan's arms braced vice-like across Brendon's chest and the other still at his hip, pressing tight as he pulls Brendon back against him, and oh. Oh _god_. Brendon's never been more thankful for alcohol in his entire life, because without it Ryan would be well aware of just how turned on Brendon is right now -- but like this, with the drink softening his body's responses, it's safer; it'll last longer, and it's still Allowed.

That's kind of the incredible thing about dancing -- it lets you do things you could never do otherwise, move in ways that wouldn't be permitted outside of the music; feel things and be things you couldn't anywhere else. And apparently Ryan's just discovered this, because his exploitation of it is resulting in nothing Brendon's ever felt on the dance floor, not even that time the day after he blew Spencer, when they went stir-crazy and drove two hours from the cabin one night just to hit up some nightlife, spent till two a.m. in their skinny jeans, grinding up against each other in a club where no one knew their names, laughing and sweating and touching and dancing and, and maybe a little kissing, and Spencer's _hips_ , holy fucking hell.

This? Is so, so better than that.

And it's safe, maybe it's safe, the way Ryan's grinding against him, the way Brendon is not quite imagining the feel of Ryan's dick pressed against his ass ( _god_ ) -- it's safe because it's here in the music, in the dancing. It's safe, maybe, but only on the surface.

The danger's beneath.

The danger's in the way Ryan's lips brush his ear; in the words that tumble out, hot and breathless in that chilling, edge-of-a-cliff pause at the end of the bridge: "Stop fighting."

Only then does Brendon see it: how he'd been fighting since the moment Ryan turned the tables, took control: he'd still been resisting, fighting not only for control over Ryan, but over himself, for his own sake, for Ryan's, for _theirs_. To do what Ryan's asked, to give up control over himself, could shatter their universe.

Ryan has no idea what he's asking.

But because Ryan asks, Brendon stops fighting. He falls, and Ryan catches him.

He doesn't even realize the song's ended until iTunes' shuffle jars them both from the trance, shifting into the opening trail of chords to Ryan's favorite Elton John number, ever.

Their bodies disentangle, and Brendon turns around, all wide eyes and bold, forced confidence, but Ryan's smiling. Underneath the matted hair, the fine sheen of sweat, flushed cheeks and twinkling eyes, he's smiling. No drama, no _what have we done_. They danced; that's it. Ryan broke out of his shell, danced with his best friend, and it's over.

Brendon forces the disappointment from his mind and smiles back. "See?"

Ryan shrugs, still grinning. "Thanks." He ducks his head, staring down at the floor, at their bare feet, letting the music fill their silence. "I love this song."

Brendon says, "I know."

He doesn't say, _I put it on here years ago, just to listen to when I was thinking of you and it was too much, too hard to face without music, like all the worst parts of life are._

The words spill out, _When are you gonna come down? When are you going to land?_ Brendon hopes never, if this is what high is like.

He extends an arm, questioning, and hopes to find an answer to match.

Ryan chuckles. "I said one song."

"Okay," Brendon smiles, but he keeps his arm out. "So... don't dance with me 'cause you have to, dance with me 'cause you want to."

He knows it's the kind of movie moment Ryan's trying to determine whether it's humanly possible to resist: his face is unreadable, but when he finally smiles, he's stepping forward, closing fingers around Brendon's outstretched hand.

"Okay. But I'm the guy."

"Kay," Brendon agrees, tugging him forward. "Does Spencer's mom have any dance shoes? 'Cause maybe I could borrow them..."

Ryan narrows his eyes, pinches Brendon's tummy with his free hand, but he's still smiling as they fall into each other (too easy, too right), his hands at Brendon's waist and Brendon's arms looped loosely around Ryan's neck. It's easier than not for their foreheads to touch, and Brendon remembers yoga, how terrified he'd been of the silence, of how aware they'd both been as they'd touched. It's like a one-eighty now -- the loss of inhibition only moments before; the safety of being surrounded by music; it all leaves him settled, comfortable in a way he shouldn't be, not when they're this close, not with Ryan's breath hot on his face, with no one around telling him no.

They sway side to side, barely moving at all, and it's virtually pointless junior high dancing if you get right down to it, but Ryan's looser now with his movements than he's ever been, those precious few times they'd danced before: in Spencer's basement, clutching each other's hands, high on the promise of fame; or backstage in the middle of an interview. This feels different and the same, a picture of both how far they've come and how they've stayed the same -- how nothing important has been lost.

"I'm sorry," Ryan says suddenly.

"What?"

"Last time. For not dancing with you. I'm sorry."

"I -- what are you talking about?"

Their eyes are open now, and Ryan's are huge up close, even bigger when he realizes Brendon's actually clueless. "I -- you were really drunk, I guess. You don't remember?" Brendon shakes his head. "I -- um, last time we were here? You kept asking me to dance, all night, and I wouldn't, and finally you gave up and went to bed, and afterwards Spence told me you weren't just joking around, you'd really wanted me to dance with you. And I -- "

Ryan swallows, his hands stiffening a bit on Brendon's hips, but Brendon stretches out a thumb to stroke over the back of Ryan's neck, just light; encouragement.

"I -- I went upstairs, so I could tell you I was sorry, but you were already asleep. You were all curled up in your bed, and you looked so small, and sad, and I -- I just. I don't know. I just felt really bad. And I thought, what if you never woke up, and I hadn't danced with you. So I just... curled up next to you and fell asleep. By the time we woke up, you'd forgotten everything and I was embarrassed. So I didn't say anything."

Brendon doesn't know if his heart's stopped altogether or sped up so fast he can't feel it, but either way, it's making his head spin. He doesn't remember the night -- just a blur of Jon's irresistible mixed drinks, a lot of music, a burnt guitar, and plenty of off-key singing. He remembers the morning, finding Ryan curled against him, and feeling happier than he had in weeks, despite the hangover.

"I -- _Ryan_."

"It's stupid, I know. It's so dumb."

"No, it's not."

"I'm sorry."

"Look at me."

Ryan looks, and their heads are separate now, faces inches apart, and Brendon bites his lip against all the words he wants to say; waits, instead, for more suitable ones to form.

"Ryan, it's _okay_."

His eyes must say it better than his words, because Ryan keeps his own locked to them for a long time, searching, before he finally blinks. "I'll always do it."

"You'll...?"

"Whenever you ask. I'll always dance with you."

Overtaken, Brendon still finds himself smiling, linking his fingers together behind Ryan's neck to keep them from slipping into his hair, pulling him in for a kiss, because it would be too fucking easy.

He says, "Then I'll always ask."


	4. Chapter 4

It's totally unfair.

"It's totally unfair."

Ryan glances up from his lawn chair, lifting a hand to lower his bug-eyed sunglasses and offer Brendon a moment of his precious attention. "Do you _ever_ have an unexpressed thought?"

Brendon narrows his eyes. "I'm having one now."

Ryan smirks. Replacing his sunglasses, he rearranges the position of his Ayn Rand book in front of him and shuffles into a better spot in his chair, legs stretched out in front of him and crossed at the ankles, his wide straw hat shading the parts of him not drenched in 8,000 SPF sunscreen. His free hand reaches down for the spiked lemonade awaiting him on the ground, a lemon wedge perched on the rim of the glass, and he takes a sip. Dainty and languid, careful not to spill any on the fluttery scarf draped loosely around his neck, fabric swooping down over his bare chest. Brendon would laugh oh so hard if this weren't oh so _unfair_.

"Dude, seriously," he huffs. "You make me sit in the passenger seat the whole way up here, and now _I_ have to wash the car, alone?"

"It's _your_ car," Ryan points out snootily, using one creepily long finger to turn a page. "Which _you_ insisted on taking up here. Which _you_ chose to drive through a mud puddle yesterday for kicks and got the doors glued shut with caked-on dirt. This is the dictionary definition of fair, Brendon."

Brendon still isn't convinced, but there's one way to fix the skewed lack of justice in this situation: crank on the hose and aim it at Ryan.

And oh, god, he _does_ , before he can really weigh the consequences, but whatever they are will be worth it, watching him splutter and flail until his lawn chair closes in on him, leaving him folded nearly in half and drenched as he tosses his book to the side, overturning his lemonade in the process, and Brendon's still struggling to recover oxygen from his laughter by the time Ryan makes it to his feet, tearing off across the soft, dirt-path driveway and chasing Brendon around the car. Which, admittedly, is probably not the smartest move because Brendon's still got the hose and he _knows_ it, he's using it over his shoulder even as he skitters around the car, trying not to slip in the increasingly wet ground around them as he shrieks and cackles over Ryan's obscene threats.

But Brendon's a little giddy on victory and maybe doesn't have the clearest judgment at the moment, either, because shockingly, the hose actually does have a fixed length, and once Brendon reaches it, mid-run at top speed, it jerks him backwards like a leash, slipping out of his fingers but not in time to keep his feet from flying out from under him.

He lands flat on the ground butt-first with a surprised "Ohf!", and when he opens his eyes, Ryan's looming over him, hose in hand. Brendon must look pitiful enough on his own, covered in mud and pine needles, because Ryan doesn't venture any more retaliation than a triumphant smirk.

"Way to go," he offers, extending a hand.

Brendon reaches up, innocent puppy eyes and all, and he's seen too many movies that don't allow him to do anything in this moment but take hold of Ryan's hand and yank him right down.

"You fucking -- _Brendon_!"

Brendon goes for the kill, grabbing at Ryan's most ticklish spots until they're both sufficiently bathed in mud, the hose still running contentedly at their feet.

"You -- will -- help me!" Brendon insists, only relenting when Ryan starts to actually _whine_ , resorting to hair-pulling and kicking, and an implicit truce arises.

"Whatever," Ryan grumbles.

Standing and snatching up the hose, he points it at the car for a few moments, bored, while Brendon pulls himelf to his feet and looks down at his clothes, assessing the damage. It catches Ryan's notice, and he takes the opportunity to aim the hose at Brendon, more as a gesture of good will than anything else. Brendon smiles, letting his head fall back, arms and legs spread as the cool water washes over him.

"Loser," Ryan mutters, but he's smiling when Brendon opens his eyes.

Brendon beams back, reaching down to dip his arm in a giant bucket of soapy water and emerging with a large sponge in tow.

"I think this is the first time I've actually washed a car by hand since like, high school," Ryan muses.

Brendon chuckles. "Not surprised, princess."

"Shut up."

"Dude, oh my god," Brendon grins, stretching his arm out to reach over the roof of the car. "Weirdest place ever, right -- last summer me and Shane took his old Nissan through the car wash but like, it got stuck, and the attendant took forever to fix it and the suds were like all over the car so no one could see in. So he's like, 'I'm totally gonna suck you off,' and I'm like, fucking _sweet_ , and he _did_. Oh my god, it was awesome."

The hose is hanging limp in Ryan's fingers as he stares, frozen to the spot. "What?"

Brendon halts, sponge dripping onto his bare feet. "What?"

"I -- the fuck? You and -- Shane? You guys -- ?"

Oh.

... _Oh_.

"...Oh."

"The fuck?" Ryan repeats, his voice thin and eyes searching. "You never -- he just randomly gave you a blow job?!"

"Um." Brendon swallows, shrugging awkwardly. "Not... randomly. I mean. It wasn't... the first time."

" _What?!_ You guys -- you were -- you never fucking _told_ me!"

Brendon sighs, dropping the sponge back into the bucket. "Dude, come on. That's so hypocritical. You're like the most secretive person I know."

"Brendon, I tell you when I'm in a _relationship_ , Jesus Christ!"

"It wasn't -- it wasn't like -- dude, 'cause I knew you'd be all critical! You always are. Even when I was like, sort-of-barely-whatever dating Sarah, the only woman like, ever, to actually restore my faith that all females aren't, y'know, screaming fourteen-year-olds, you still had to find something wrong with her. You're _always_ critical of my relationships, man, always."

"Oh," Ryan huffs, "all, like, two and a half of them."

Brendon blinks. "Way to drive it home."

"Brendon -- "

"See?! You just proved my point. I didn't want to tell you and suffer through all your crap till I knew it was solid, till it turned out to be something, I dunno, long-term. Which it didn't, so nothing lost!"

"Well if I'd _known_ ," Ryan snaps, shoving the hose to the ground, "I could've _told_ you that from the beginning! You and Shane are totally wrong for each other as a couple!"

"Oh, _really_ , Ryan? Okay, so why don't you just tell me who I should date, or fuck, or walk around L.A. with, or whatever, okay?"

Ryan sighs, eyes rolling high. "You're so immature, Brendon, you ever think maybe that's why you can't handle a relationship?!"

" _Oh_ , says the guy who fucking _cheated_ and still expects me to go out on stage every night and sing about some slut who did the same to him!"

Ryan's eyes turn cold, dark, automatically shutting off, and Brendon knows he's gone too far but he can't bring himself to care, not with the anger rising up in his chest, the pain and defensiveness, because Ryan hit home, too, and it's not _fair_.

"Fuck you," Ryan whispers.

"No, fuck _you_ , Ross, okay, at least I didn't stay in a relationship because it was ' _easy_ ' like some of us; I fucking knew when to get out and I did it, like a god damned _adult_!"

He spins on his heel and storms into the cabin, muddy feet and all, dripping onto the carpet and the hardwood and the stairs all the way up to his room, but waiting until his door slams shut behind him before he lets himself acknowledge the hot prickle behind his eyes, only crashing down around him when he slumps down the door, the wet skin of his back pressed hard against the wood, and nothing, nothing left in the world is fair.

 

+++

 

Brendon skips dinner, and hopes that's signal enough that he's distraught, because Uries haven't skipped a meal since like, the 14th century, and back then Brendon's pretty sure it was like, rotten veal liver or something. He only leaves his room to pee, once, and doesn't even venture downstairs to delve into his stash of candy. The only thing of use in his bedroom is his iPod, and he listens to it forever, hooks it into the wall when the battery dies and puts on albums filled with Marilyn Manson, still lingering in his playlists since that one musically rebellious semester his junior year, before he remembered music is supposed to have notes, and that Manson didn't really make him feel better about being forced to go to church, in the end.

But it sure as fuck makes him feel better now.

Or, maybe a lot worse. But it feels good to have someone to be angry with.

This isn't like them; they'll cool off for half an hour in their respective lairs, but it's always over soon enough. They fight, they get over it. But it never gets personal, not this far; at least not for a long time. It's always music, the band, but never this. It's not that Brendon didn't mean it, but he didn't mean it so harshly. And he's got no idea whether Ryan meant it or how much, and he's too afraid to ask.

Afternoon melts to evening, evening to night, and it's almost nine by the time his eardrums beg for a rest. He tugs the earbuds out and shuts off the device, turning on his side toward the window, away from the door.

It's another twenty minutes before the hinges creak, before the fresh oxygen from the hall swooshes in, light and airy. Ryan follows, judging by the dip in the mattress, and Brendon expects him to sit on the edge, tight and straight, as far away from Brendon as possible while he mumbles his apology.

But Ryan's nothing if not unpredictable these days, and Brendon startles when he feels a warm body press up against him, Ryan's gangly arms wrapping around him, face tucking into the back of Brendon's neck, and it's maybe the best thing he's felt in forever.

"'M sorry," Ryan whispers.

Brendon reaches up, squeezes his hand and doesn't let go.

It's such a relief to breathe again, to feel his muscles settle and relax, that he almost forgets everything he wanted to say.

He shifts a little, over onto his back, but Ryan stays plastered against him, adjusting himself as Brendon moves.

"It was just a few months, last summer," he starts softly. Ryan keeps quiet, nestled close. "It wasn't -- it didn't end badly, at all, it just. Reminded me of how fucking hopeless I am with relationships, and I just. Didn't want to be reminded of it. I knew you'd analyze it and pick it apart and I just wanted to not think about it. I'm sorry I didn't tell you. And I'm sorry I... said stuff."

Ryan pulls back, just enough for their eyes to meet. "I'm sorry I'm a critical asshole. I'll try not to be." His head settles again at Brendon's shoulder, a sigh escaping him. "And, you're not hopeless, Bren. Just 'cause you haven't had a lot of relationship experience, that doesn't mean anything. I mean, look at me, I was with Keltie for two and a half years and now I'm alone, right back at square one."

"Yeah, but." Brendon shrugs, his forehead creasing. "You _learned_ stuff from it. You learned... what works in relationships, what doesn't, how to work with each other and relate and all that shit."

"But... you learn that stuff in friendships, too. I mean. Look at us. In the beginning we were at each other's throats all the time, but now... we know each other. We can read each other and we know how to make things better, or worse if we're feeling pissy... We know how to calm each other down, and we certainly know how to push each other's buttons. It's not all that different."

"Yeah..." Brendon smiles, nudging him, "just a lot less orgasms."

Ryan smiles, and there's that kind of pause that would just be awkward with anyone else, but with them, it's comfortable silence, listening to the insects outside Brendon's open window.

"Did you..." Ryan starts, a little hesitant. "Did you guys have fun at least? You and Shane?"

"Yeah... yeah, we did. It was nice."

"Can I ask... what..."

Brendon shrugs. "We just... realized it wasn't gonna go any further, that we weren't gonna like, fall in love or anything, so we figured it was probably best to just... stop while we were ahead."

Ryan nods, thoughtful, curling his knees up. "Well it's kind of amazing that you're still best friends. I mean. Not a lot of people can just go back to where they were before."

"Yeah."

"I don't think we could."

"What?"

Ryan looks up. "You and me. If we... y'know. I can't imagine we could ever just go back to... friends."

Brendon tries not to read into it, but it's _Ryan_. There's never nothing to read into.

He glances down at his chest, at the way his t-shirt bunches up from his position. "That doesn't say much for our friendship. Why would you think that?"

"'Cause," Ryan shrugs. "I think we'd fall in love really hard. It's just the way we both are. And then... one of us would hurt the other, and then it would just be this, like, meltdown, like a shift in the universe. I don't think things could ever be normal again."

There's such a collision of emotion at his words; Brendon can't decide whether to be hopeful or terrified.

But when he says, "I'd never hurt you, Ryan," it feels like the world's ultimate truth; like he means it more than he's ever meant anything.

Ryan looks at him. "I wouldn't either."

"What makes you think we'd break up, anyway?" Brendon smirks, poking him, trying to keep it light and rhetorical, even though he feels like he might die if he doesn't get the answer.

Ryan smiles. "You'd get sick of me."

He smiles back. "Would've already gotten sick of you by now, dumbass. Face it, Ross, you'd be stuck with me. We'd be that old couple who sits on their porch and yells at kids to get off their lawn." Ryan laughs, his tiny body shaking against Brendon's. "And hey, you're halfway there already, with your scarves and grandpa hats and -- "

"Shut up!" Ryan squeaks, shoving Brendon with his own pillow. Brendon struggles weakly for a moment, only stopping when Ryan's smile is bright enough to compensate for the room's dim lighting. It falters though, fading as all of Ryan's smiles inevitably must. "So... no more unnecessary secrets?"

"Deal."

It seems enough to satisfy Ryan, who settles back down until one bony knee is bent and draped halfway over Brendon's, his hand fisted at Brendon's side, breath even and warm as it releases against Brendon's t-shirt.

"Tell me your biggest secret," Ryan mumbles into his shirt.

Brendon smiles to himself, not letting his mind acknowledge how much that would mean. Instead he just smiles and says, "Can't," and holds his breath until he's convinced Ryan won't press it.

"You want to tell me yours?" Brendon asks after a silence, and it's a long shot, but he wants to give Ryan the opportunity if it was confession he was after; and part of Brendon desperately just wants to _know_.

Ryan shrugs, and he's quiet long enough that Brendon thinks it's over, maybe this isn't going anywhere after all, until Ryan opens his mouth, lips soft against Brendon's shirt.

"I feel like my dad's suicide was my fault."

Brendon stiffens instinctively, hand tightening around Ryan's, not even realizing their fingers were still entwined, and is half convinced he actually heard his own heart shatter.

" _Ryan_."

"Like, no, I -- I know logically it's unfair, like, to myself, but. I feel guilty. I feel like I just made his life harder."

"Ryan, I. Jesus, all kids make their parents' lives harder. But -- they also make their lives so much more beautiful, and it's the parents' choice to decide which they're gonna focus on. Not -- like, not to say anything against your dad. I mean, I'm not excusing his actions either but like... he was in a lot of pain, and sometimes when you're in a lot of pain you can't see the good. I think... maybe he was too afraid that he wasn't going to be a good father. Like a self-fulfilling prophecy, y'know?"

Ryan nods against him, and Brendon shivers, feeling a world of worry swell up in him, imagining what other horrible thoughts Ryan might be hiding, what other guilt or fear could be pent up in his tiny, precious little self.

"Fear is so scary-powerful," Brendon whispers, half to himself. "Never, ever let it win, Ryan. Promise me."

"I promise."

And Brendon won't realize till later how much that means, that Ryan would promise him something that meaningful just because Brendon asked. That Ryan never promises anyone anything; scarcely believes in promises, in forever, in permanence. In himself.

Brendon wonders when it changed. What changed it.

If... maybe _he_...

His mind stops.

He's never hoped that far, and he won't start now.

 

+++

 

Brendon's always loved the cabin like this, in the middle of the night when everyone's asleep. There aren't many parts of his life that are silent, or still -- at least not for long, before some diversion or noise or crowd interrupts -- not even his own house is quiet. Always pets or roommates, stray visitors at odd hours, or even just noises of the streets outside. But here everything is still. Everything sleeps, and it's one of those precious few moments Brendon feels at peace.

He doesn't plan to wake up, but it happens here sometimes, not used to sleeping in such absolute silence, save for the insects if his window's left open. He shuffles downstairs, his half-awake brain begging for _bread, delicious bread, oh god bread forever, BREAD!_ \-- a simple but powerful request, and he's already in the kitchen, one arm reaching out prematurely for the fridge door, when the shadows shift and the fridge light appears and a figure jumps back.

"Jesus!"

"Nah, it's jus' me," Brendon slurs, yawning and rubbing at his eyes until he can see --

Until he can _see_.

Oh, Jesus indeed.

Ryan's Ryan, that much is certain, it's not a burgler, and, haha, Brendon suddenly has awesome images of Burlger Ryan, some epic faily character in a Woody Allen movie, but none of those images -- not one -- compares to the one in front of him now, the _real_ image, the one that's burned itself into his mind for all eternity with a single glance.

Ryan's in underwear.

Scratch that. That would be half normal.

Ryan's in _girls' underwear_.

It's hard to tell in the dark but they look simple enough, satiny dark blue, no frilly nonsense or bows or thongs, just a tiny strip of lace around the edges. It doesn't look like the itchy kind of lace, though, but soft, like the rest of the material, hugging the hipbones that jut out over the top of the fabric.

"Um."

"Oh my god, you did not just -- "

"What!"

"Brendon, you _pinched_ yourself."

"Dude, this is -- you're -- "

"You're not dreaming -- oh my god, you _dream_ about this?!"

"I -- no! No! But dude! This isn't _normal_ , okay!"

Ryan frowns, wrapping his arms protectively around himself and backing up against the counter. "I'm not a freak."

"Oh my god, no, not -- " Brendon rolls his eyes, regrettably wide awake. "That's not what I -- dude, no. I just meant, it's not normal for _you_ , like, this is like, new. I was -- " And he can't help it, oh god, he's laughing. "I was just -- " _Laughing!_ "-- surprised."

He really, honestly expects to be punched, or yelled at, at least, but Ryan breaks into a smile with him, burying his face in his palms as he chuckles.

It doesn't last, and they're silent again after a moment, but Ryan's face is calm, unthreatened as he shrugs, smirking: a little sheepish but all coy. "I'm allowed a couple secrets."

Brendon bites his lip against another outburst, still smiling. "Fair enough, fair enough."

...So.

"So... like..."

"It's not a _thing_ ," Ryan establishes.

"Right, no, okay."

"Like, I don't... get off on it or anything, it's just..."

"I -- okay. That's. Okay."

A pair of toast slices pop up from the toaster, only then reminding Brendon of why he's here and why Ryan must be here too, obviously; midnight cravings cultivated by life on a bus -- and oh, hey, _BREAD_.

And just like that, the issue... isn't one.

Ryan butters the toast methodically, handing one slice to Brendon, who hops up on the counter and wolfs it down in one bite. Ryan reopens the bread bag and stuffs another two slices in, leaning lazily back against the counter while he waits, chomping quietly on his own piece.

"So..."

"You can ask, Brendon," Ryan smiles at the floor.

"No, I just, y'know." Why is he still talking? He can ask. He's totally going to _ask_. "So like... it's just... yeah, okay, I'm asking."

Ryan shrugs, turning the butter knife over in his hand, sliding one finger over the handle, a little nervous but barely. "It's like... it sounds really lame, but it kind of... reaffirms my own masculinity."

...Leave it to Ryan to make this _impossible_ to understand.

"Um. Wearing chicks' panties makes you feel like a man?"

"Not... exactly," Ryan protests, but he's smiling. "It's like... when I'm feeling especially weak, or powerless. Like I was earlier... it helps. Like, it makes me feel stronger, knowing I'm not a woman -- which is, god, like, totally, primitive sexist alpha-male bullshit, and completely embarrassing that it even works, but. It just. It _does_. Somehow. I don't know."

His eyes are wide and searching for reassurance when he looks up at Brendon, who's trying not to think about the fact that primitive sexist alpha-male bullshit is actually weirdly hot. Especially on Ryan.

"That's actually pretty cool," he says.

Ryan shrugs.

"And dude, like, that's totally a band name. Primitive Sexist Alpha-Male Bullshit."

"Yeah? What genre were you thinking, like... screamo?"

"Nah, nah, it'd have to be like..." Brendon narrows his eyes in focus, automatically shoving a new piece of toast down his throat when Ryan presents it to him. "Like, post-punk heavy metal grunge rock."

Ryan laughs. "Is that a real genre?"

Brendon grins at him, teeth covered in toast mush. "It should be."

"We'll make it one."

"Hell yeah, next album."

They bump fists to seal the deal, man to man, and everything should be upside down in this moment, but somehow it's not. Somehow, everything's so much the same Brendon wonders if any of this happened at all.

If anything's changed, it's how hard he's fallen.

How hard he's falling still.

And he's still living in doubts, doubts from forever ago, but with Ryan's eyes on him the way they are now, laughing and affectionate, _trusting_ , he starts to think maybe, once he's done falling and hits bottom... Ryan might actually be there to catch him.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is just made of eighteen kinds of ridiculous; I struggled constantly, and I still think it's way too indulgent; I felt like I kept losing focus from the greater picture; but I suspect you'll enjoy it anyway (and in my defense, they _are_ drunk as all fuck). The badfic featured here was written graciously by [these lovely people](http://behindthec.livejournal.com/89121.html). Other refs are linked in the text. You'll definitely want to visit the soundtrack for this one. P.S. [This](http://yrclndstnlvr.livejournal.com/23367.html) now exists. Oh, lord.
> 
>  **Dedication:** [](http://junjou-robotica.livejournal.com/profile)[**junjou_robotica**](http://junjou-robotica.livejournal.com/) for cello lessons, [](http://the-randomist.livejournal.com/profile)[](http://the-randomist.livejournal.com/)**the_randomist** for Spencer's mom, and everyone who ~contributed. ;)

**4.**

 

_"Am I in love with Brendon?"_

_The slurpy squish of Spencer's dish sponge fades; a plate clinks beneath the suds of the dishwater, and slowly, like he might rupture something if he moves too fast, Spencer turns around, blinking once._

_"...This feels like a trick question."_

_Ryan grits his teeth. "Spence."_

_"I -- what? I don't know, are you?!"_

_"I -- no!" Ryan snaps indignantly. "No, of course not, Jesus!"_

_"...Fine. So that's settled."_

_He turns back to his sink of soapy water, scrubbing casually at a pot, and Ryan hates everything._

_It's so **unfair** , the awareness that sparks between them from years of... well, just years. How Spencer **knows** how Ryan works, and Ryan knows he knows, and Spencer knows Ryan knows he knows, and -- fuck, whatever, but it makes Ryan self-aware in a wide variety of embarrassing ways, because he doesn't want to be seen for all his tricks, all the subtle little manifestations of his drama. Like this: Spencer knows if he prods, asks all the right open-ended questions, Ryan will shut off just to get more attention, even though he wants to talk. But if Spencer ignores him, Ryan'll get pissed at being ignored and start talking anyway, as a sort of retaliation. So Spencer ignores him, because they both know the goal here is to get Ryan talking._

_Ryan hates everything._

_"Spence?"_

_"Yes, dear?"_

_"Is he in love with me?"_

_There's no game-face when Spencer turns this time; it's pale cheeks and dark eyes in contrast, sharp with fear but soft with sympathy, and there's nothing he has to say._

_"Yeah, Ryan."_

_"Wh -- I -- ?!"_

_"No, not infatuated," Spencer sighs, turning resignedly back to his dishes, "no, not crushing. He's in love with you."_

_"Why didn't you **tell** me?!"_

_"You never asked."_

_"But why didn't you **tell me**?"_

_"Because you weren't ready to know until you asked."_

_Ryan hates **everything**. Spencer's riding especially high on the list right now._

_Also, he can't breathe too well, because Brendon's **in love** with him._

_Every touch, every staged act, every overexaggerated display of affection in every interview -- and it's not that the news is surprising, but it's taken on a new reality -- or maybe any at all, for the first time, whereas before it was this dim suspicion in the back of Ryan's mind that he never let himself acknowledge; that he always found a way to write off. He can't think metaphorically now (because Brendon? Is **in love** with him), but it's like everything before was black, and now it's white. It meant one thing then, and now, retroactively, it means something else._

_It means everything._

_His fingers are digging deep into the table top, pressing dents into his placemat, knuckles white and breath so short he doesn't even realize Spencer's crossed the room, sitting beside Ryan and cupping his warm, water-softened hands over Ryan's cold, tense ones._

_Ryan looks up, and Spencer looks genuinely sad. Spencer looks genuinely sad maybe three days out of the year._

_Maybe Ryan mostly just hates himself._

_"He told you?" he asks._

_"Yeah." Spencer squeezes his hands, doesn't let his eyes drop, all games off. "Once, a couple years ago."_

_"What did he say?"_

_"Um. He said, 'Spence, I'm in love with Ryan.'"_

_"...And?"_

_"...And, he cried for two hours."_

_Yeah. Definitely himself._

_"And what did you do?"_

_"I... I held him, Ryan."_

_Spencer's eyes aren't bright the way they should be, they way they _are_ , but they're honest, unguarded, and that'll have to do. For now, truth is better than comfort._

_"I kissed him," Ryan says to his placemat._

_Spencer doesn't say, **Oh, RYAN**. He doesn't say, **You're an idiot**. He doesn't say, **Why** , he doesn't say, **You shouldn't have** , he doesn't say **I don't know what to say**._

_But his eyes do._

_Ryan groans, surrendering weakly to gravity, letting it draw him down, one arm folded awkwardly atop the table as he slumps against Spencer's chest._

_"When?" Spencer asks gently._

_"Before dinner. In the music room, by the piano."_

_Spencer's chest vibrates a little with a chuckle. "Like a murder? After cocktails, in the kitchen, with the cheese grater?"_

_Ryan feels a smile begging for a place on his mouth, but he fights it back. He's **distraught** , damn it._

_"Fix it?" he mumbles into the soft, stretchy cotton._

_"Can't," Spencer sighs, rubbing Ryan's back through his shirt, the natural strength of his arms tugging him closer with each stroke._

_"But you fix everything."_

_"I fix what's broken; this isn't. It's just... I dunno. Bent."_

_Ryan considers this for a moment, wary of the amount of sense it makes, and replies, " **You're** bent."_

_"Only for you, sugar."_

_If it were anyone else, it might set him off, for someone to play games when all the rules are broken and warped ( **bent** , whatever). But it's Spencer, and maybe it's just the automatic confidence, the implicit assumption that Ryan can fix this, that he's strong enough -- but it works. Act as if, and all._

_Ryan doesn't say, **Tell me I'll fix this.** He doesn't say, **Tell me I can do it.**_

_He says, "Promise?"_

_Spencer says, "Always."_

 

+++

 

Brendon will be the first to admit he believes in a number of ridiculous things, like true love and the possibility of entire houses made of chocolate. But when it comes to fate, for him it requires a little too much blind faith akin to religion.

Still, it's hard to label it as much else when one of his attention-deficit impulses leads to one of the most erotic moments of his life. Which in itself is monumental, as Brendon's impulses tend to lead to notoriously _bad_ results (the Urie Brothers' Marshmallow War of 2002, for example, and loss of his paltry allowance to his mother's new wardrobe).

But it's a whim, insignificant, that leads him on a search through the cabin's closets until he locates the cello he remembered seeing last time, when Ryan called for a day of cleaning and threatened loss of limb should anyone dare renege.

It's much the same -- dusty, unused for too long, and it makes Brendon a little sad to see it all alone, with no proper space for it in the music room. He hasn't played in years, but he remembers always seeing the cello as the most _human_ of instruments, and he supposes such a personification stems from having started it before any others, at the barely-alive age of four. It's of a size and shape that could only be likened to a body, and requires a touch you'd only ever use on a person -- someone who needs to be held up, tended to gently and carefully. Someone fragile.

He'd started playing again, for a few months, after he met Ryan.

He drags it into the music room, cleans it off, and sets himself up with a wide, comfortable chair right over a skewed square of sun in the middle of the floor. The cabin's beautiful this time of day, mid-afternoon, with just enough breeze to leave the windows open and just enough sun to leave you lazy, ready to melt into a nap at the barest provocation. Ryan succumbed some time ago, and Brendon found him sprawled on the living room floor, a half-eaten sandwich beside him, _The Three Pillars of Zen_ splayed over his chest as he snored softly against a sofa cushion. The urge to lean over and kiss his forehead was too strong and too pointless to resist, and maybe it wasn't so impulsive after all, that Brendon turned straight to music to escape the smell of Ryan's shampoo, the velvet warmth of his skin.

The bow feels like home in his hands, and he runs his fingers over it for a second, trying to remember why he stopped playing. But that doesn't feel important now. The equipment and the experience may both be old, but it feels the same, new all over again as he draws over the strings, taking ample time to tune it, slow and careful until it the pitch is right, until it sends shivers down his spine and through his veins.

There aren't many pieces he remembers, not off the top of his head, but he remembers one, the [piece](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=S6yuR8efotI) he worked half a summer to learn because his sixth grade crush in band had mentioned off-hand to the professor, once, that it was her favorite. With Brendon's luck, she had a boyfriend by the time the new school year started, but the music stuck. If anything, he played it more, fiercer, with a higher passion, locked in his room and letting the music cloak him. A revenge, of sorts. Bittersweet, but lasting.

The bitter's faded over the years, leaving sweet, and it's rougher than he'd like from lack of practice, but the romance of it, the intensity, has endured, and he can feel it gripping him as he falls into it, his eyes shutting against the world, against everything but Bach's melody, the impassioned hum of the strings. He holds the last note as long as he can, trying to cling to something he can't quite define; something like smoke, something that's there, but slipping from him the harder he tries to catch it.

" _Jesus_."

He nearly knocks over the cello as he whips around in the chair, eyes trailing over Ryan's figure as he stands in the door, his shirt rumpled from sleep, hair sticking up in six directions, each more adorable than the last. There are creases on one side of his cheek from the pillow, and his mouth's just parted, either from awe or, more likely, his less than awake state.

"Scared the shit out of me," Brendon breathes. "Did I wake you?"

Ryan blinks, like the words bring him down from some elevated state, and he drags his eyes from the instrument up to Brendon's, absently shaking his head. "I haven't seen you play in years."

Brendon smiles. "That's 'cause I haven't played in years. Wasn't it obvious?"

Ryan just shakes his head again, silent, lips still parted, but there's nothing in his bright, wide eyes to suggest he's anything less than fully conscious, and Brendon finds himself blushing, as if caught in some unknown act.

"I want you to teach me," Ryan announces.

"I -- what?"

"Teach me to play it. Please?"

"I -- " Brendon sets his cello upright, laughing nervously as he runs a hand through his hair. "Right now?"

"Well..." Ryan scratches at his head, wrinkling his nose as he walks closer. "I mean, we'll have to cancel our trip to the opera and reschedule the cocktail party, but, um, yeah, now, loser."

Brendon reaches out and jabs at Ryan's tummy, earning him a halfhearted whimper as Ryan curls in on himself, smiling.

"Please?"

"I. Yeah. Okay. Sure. Um. Sit."

And once again, we've returned to Brendon's more widely accepted impulses of _disaster and ruin_ , but the good news is he's starting to recognize them on arrival, because the moment he steps aside to let Ryan take his place in the chair, a number of images pop up in his head, loud and clear and black and white, like the little bubbles on Pop-Up Video, when he realizes what he's about to do.

Ryan's neck cranes up to watch him expectantly, one set of long fingers closing around the bow, and Brendon stops breathing.

"Um. Okay. So." He kneels behind the chair, trying to wrap his arms around it to position the neck of the instrument and Ryan's fingers all at once, but it's hard to reach or see properly, and what with the lack of oxygen to his brain, he's completely forgotten how any teacher ever taught him.

"Um," Ryan pipes up, twisting around to see, "maybe if I just, like, sat in front of you. I'm kinda, y'know, narrow."

"Yeah. No, that's good, okay."

Famous last words, and all.

So Ryan stands up and they switch, with Brendon reclaiming his seat and pressing himself as far back into the chair as he can, spreading his legs (oh god) for Ryan to sit between. And he does, and then he's just. There. With his ass pressed back against Brendon's crotch and -- no, mostly just his _ass_ pressed against Brendon's _crotch_ and Brendon's hearing fucking DeLeon's voice in his head again, and isn't that peachy, knowing he'll never be able to hear his friends perform ever again without thinking of Ryan grinding up against him.

"...Well?" Ryan prods impatiently.

"Yeah. Okay. Um. This is the bow."

"Thanks, dumbass."

"Shut up. Here, you want to hold it -- like this. And -- now your other hand, here." He keeps both his hands gently over Ryan's guiding them to the bow and the neck, respectively, but Ryan's submitting so easily, letting Brendon guide his every movement without protest, with full surrender, and it's _too much too much not enough_. "Um. When you put your fingers on the neck, you want to curve them over -- like -- yeah. Keep them steady. And -- you need to separate them."

Ryan stretches his fingers out beneath Brendon's, causing Brendon's to follow their lead. "Like this?"

Brendon swallows. "Yeah. Um. But keep your arm out, so your elbow's bent, like this, or you'll hurt your arm. And don't push your thumb too far under the neck, 'cause you'll fuck up your hand. Keep your fingers strong. And, um -- " Oh god, fuck his life, so hard. "Um, you need to spread your legs a little more, keep your knees apart."

And he's lost it, one hand on Ryan's knee to gently pry them apart (because Ryan clearly can't move his _own legs_ , Jesus Christ), and Ryan just. Lets him. And if Ryan scoots back another inch it's because he's falling off the chair, and if his back presses just a little deeper into Brendon's chest, it's because he's trying to hold his posture.

Brendon's lived like this for six years; he can do it now.

He focuses on his breath, remembering from morning practice, deepening it to strengthen his focus, clear his mind. He offers a brief overview of the strings, a couple random tidbits of information he remembers to be necessary, and slowly, hands resting over Ryan's, leads him to draw the bow once over the strings, an amateur but strong note reverberating from the wood.

Ryan smiles down at their work. "Cool."

"Yeah... it's a beautiful instrument."

"It's fucking _sexy_."

...So clearly, Ryan is the spawn of Satan.

Brendon gulps, grateful at last for their positions, that Ryan can't see his face. "Yeah," he breathes. "It is."

Ryan is still for a moment, his fingers stroking absently over the bow, tripping down over the cello's neck, before his whole body stiffens, his back straightening as he twists his head to meet Brendon's eyes. "We should make cupcakes."

Brendon blinks as Ryan smiles, setting the cello down gently, and stands, smoothing out his jeans. "For _dinner_?"

"Fuck yeah. Icing and motherfucking _sprinkles_."

"Dude. I'm starting to have way too much influence on you."

Ryan shrugs, his smile sheepish and genuine as he stuffs his hands into his pockets, shoulders up by his ears, and nods toward the cello. "Maybe that's not such a bad thing."

 

+++

 

_seein out of ur 3rd nipple yet?_

Brendon scoffs, grinning as he types back _stfu loser_ and stuffs his cell back into his pocket. Fucking Shane.

He'd been hoping the loosely enforced band rule of Drunk Promises Don't Count might apply this time, but Ryan insisted neither of them was drunk enough that night for Brendon to get out of laundry. Brendon tried to argue, he did, but Ryan came back with charts and statistics and mathematical equations about blood-alcohol level -- _MATH!_ \-- and Brendon trudged off to the pile of dirty clothes that had been multiplying exponentially in size since their arrival.

He doesn't bother to separate darks from whites -- clothes are _clothes_ , okay, and if something should turn pink, Ryan'd probably like it better, anyway, the fucking pansy -- but when he pries a twisted pair of jeans from the pile, a white dress shirt, a stray sock, and spots a flash of dark blue satin peeking out of the remaining pile, something uncomfortable and large lodges itself in his throat.

He picks it up, because hey, he's allowed, he's doing _laundry_ , this is legit. It's as soft as it looked, as he'd imagined -- softer even, and okay, Brendon isn't above admitting he imagined. It slips through his fingers, airy and light, like it might just float if it caught a breeze, and he rubs the fabric gently between two fingers, memorizing the texture, the ease of the slide.

"Oh my _god_ , you are _twelve_."

The panties drop to the floor as Brendon spins around, backing himself up against the washer, eyes blinded by the presence, by Ryan's smirk, the Smith-borrowed cant of his hips as his arms cross over his chest.

"I wasn't, I didn't, I didn't, I was just -- "

"Wash them on delicate," Ryan rolls his eyes. "Put 'em in with your jeans and die."

Brendon nods obediently, the tension leaking from his pores as his heart rate drops back to normal, Ryan's lack of reaction putting him at ease even enough to draw a smirk of his own.

"Sooo... can I put them in the dryer, or should I hang them up with your bras?"

Very calmly, face blank, Ryan bends over, scoops up the entire mass of dirty clothes, and dumps it over Brendon's head, effectively outfitting him with the scent of dirty socks for the rest of the day.

And it's moments like these Brendon must ask of his own snark: Worth it?

 _Totally_.

 

+++

 

It's the wine's fault.

Well. Let's not blame innocent alcohol. It's Patrick's fault.

Well, backing up even further, it's Pete's fault, because Pete had a very calculated reasoning laid out for why Patrick _had_ to get a Twitter. Bill had taken some convincing, and his turned out entertaining enough; Ryan had put up more resistance, only for the sake of Pete's enthusiasm when Ryan finally relented, and his was legend upon inception, industry-wide, for its unabashed documentation of Ryan Ross's general tendency towards fail.

Patrick refused outright, and Pete reasoned that Patrick's Twitter would win _awards_ for its epic content.

So on May 19th, 2009, Patrick Vaughn Stump became Twitter.com/zkcusztnew.

And it was epic.

But such was only the first moment in another domino series of moments that had picked up just now, with Ryan and Brendon's after-dinner decision to get as drunk as possible while still retaining their ability to stand upright. After the first bottle of wine, this condition was amended to allow the definition of "upright" to include support from a second pair of arms if necessary.

At seven forty-eight p.m., Patrick composes a Twitter that dings over to Brendon's phone. Ryan's too, but Ryan's is upstairs and last time he climbed the stairs drunk, which was eight minutes ago, he stubbed three toes. Toes he'd forgotten he _had_.

Ten minutes and a fourth stubbed toe later, they've finally located his cell, and Ryan clambers across the floor to catch a glimpse.

1 message from 40404:  
zkcusztnew: _everyone and their mother need to stop trying to trick me into watching 2 girls 1 cup. not gonna happen, guys._

Slowly, their heads incline to one another, eyes twinkling and lips stretching into grins that unequivocally answer the age-old question, _I dunno, what do **you** wanna do?_

Ryan purses his lips, brow creased in sudden focus. "You know how to embed a video in an email, right?"

"...Ryan, I love you."

 

+++

 

Turns out you can't embed _shit_ , or at least Brendon can't, and thanks for nothing, computer science elective, but they do manage to snag a hard copy from Scimeca and upload it to Patrick's Decaydance email with the subject, "local band, check it out (really cool intro)," and all there's left to do is wait.

Waiting is easy when you're drunk, because you don't tend to notice time passing, except that it does so exceptionally fast, and somehow it's eleven thirty-four and Brendon's phone is ringing off the... invisible hook that cell phones don't have.

Invisibility's awesome, Brendon thinks.

"Gimme!" Ryan lunges, tripping over the ottoman.

"My phone!"

"My idea!"

"My Scimeca!"

"That sounds dirty! And Nick belongs to everyone!"

Brendon shoves idly at Ryan in response, watching him topple onto the couch as Brendon reaches his cell, clicking it onto speakerphone upon spotting Patrick's name.

"Hello?"

For a moment it's a little creepy, because, okay, they're alone, tiny little guys who either wear satin panties or fantasize about the ones who do, in a cabin in the middle of nowhere, at night, and the only sound from the other line is silence, followed by a dark, heavy exhale.

" _Ryan moaned loudly as Spencer's big, thick cock filled him up so good._ "

And oh -- _oh_ \-- Ryan makes this -- this _noise_ \-- no, not a moan, hah, it's more like this keening, agonizing wail, like he just found his firstborn child dead in its crib, or something. It's -- yeah, that. A totally Biblical, plague-induced noise.

Brendon shrieks, "What the _actual fuck_?!" but he's grinning so big it doesn't sound quite right.

" _Ryan's quivering member was dripping with pre-come,_ " Patrick continues, voice velvety smooth, " _and he moaned like a whore as Spencer continued pounding his monstrous manroot into Ryan's tight hole._ "

"Oh my _fucking god_ , make it _STOP!_ " Ryan wails, hoisting his drunken self off the sofa and lunging toward Brendon. "Hang up, fucking hang up!"

"Fuck no, this is awesome!" Brendon giggles, dodging Ryan's attack as he leaps over an amp and trips on the cord, his cell flying from his grasp in the process and landing in the tiny wedge of space between the back of the sofa and the wall.

"Shit!" Ryan yelps, peering down into the black abyss. "Find it!"

Somewhere over Brendon's laughter (now resounding loudly from the floor, where Brendon fell and never quite made it up, doubled over and twisted into odd shapes, breathless), Patrick's voice croons on, now a terrifying, invisible force in the dark expanse behind the sofa, as Ryan snakes an arm down, feeling around for the phone.

" _\-- 'I'm COMING!' Ryan yelled, his impossibly hard cock exploding with manjuice' --_ "

"Ohmygodohmygodohmygod," Ryan pants, fingers closing around the phone and fumbling with buttons. "And Spencer's dick is _not bigger than mine!_ " he yells into the phone before snapping it shut, tossing it across the room like it's carrying diseases.

Brendon's head is getting fuzzy from the lack of oxygen, his laughter having spilled over into the silent, trembling realm, eyes squinty as he tries to focus on Ryan's flushed, mortified face, his heaving chest, wide open mouth and flashing eyes at he stares at Brendon, caught in shock.

"That was _awesome_ ," Brendon groans, rolling over onto his back as his body tries for one last huff of laughter.

"That was _not. right_. That's like... like... _incest_."

"Whatever, you totally want Spencer's monstrous manroot."

He doesn't quite know how Ryan manages this level of speed at this level of intoxication, but suddenly Ryan's scrambling across the floor, all creepy-long limbs before he reaches Brendon and sits on his chest, his bony ass pressing into Brendon's ribcage, hands pinning Brendon's wrists over his head, and let's be honest, in any other situation Brendon would be popping a boner pretty much on instinct, but he _can't. stop. laughing._

"I dare you," Ryan growls. "One more word, Urie, and you die."

"But, dude." Brendon squirms a little beneath him, working to prop himself on his elbows. "If you kill me, how are we gonna get back at him?"

 

+++

 

"No, search for -- "

"Fuck off, I know what I'm doing."

"You don't know any more than I do!"

Brendon rolls his eyes. "Yeah, I do, I've read this stuff."

If it's possible to _feel_ someone's eyes widen, Brendon does.

"You've read _fan fiction_?!" Ryan squeaks.

"Oh whatever, Ross, there isn't a dude on the label who hasn't, and the more you try to deny it, the more I'll know you're lying." And with that, he makes a emphatic click on the mouse, sliding a finger up the track pad to type in a URL.

Ryan is notably silent.

"There's this... site," Brendon muses to himself as he squints at the screen. "They've got like, collections and like, archives and stuff. It's a Fall Out Boy lyric, I think... and you can search by pairing, and like, genre and stuff, I think. Fuck, I can't... I can't remember..."

"Dotcoms refresh," Ryan mumbles.

"Yeah, I know, just wanted to make you embarrass yourself," Brendon chirps, fingers rapidly keying in the address.

Ryan shoves at him, just the violent side of playful until Brendon loses his balance and topples over, feeling the first dull sting of carpet burn on the point of one elbow. But it's worth it, watching Ryan take his place at the keyboard, eyes grazing over the site as he searches. There's a stretch of silence, their only music some distant mix CD on the stereo, half Queen and half Beatles with random Disney thrown in for good measure (Brendon's work, clearly). An implicit truce is called as they come together (ha) on their united quest for revenge, and it's not as hard as Brendon had thought to find the good stuff -- but the good stuff isn't what they're after.

"Wait. This one -- the title, it has to be bad."

"Yeah, yeah, click on it."

The decision process is brief: a badly edited paragraph, missing line breaks, copious exclamation marks and a dozen creative euphemisms draw their eyes and smiles to one another, gleaming.

They have a winner.

"You do it," Ryan tells him when they're huddled in front of the sofa, knees folded neatly, with Brendon's cell on the floor between them and Ryan's hands wrapped affectionately around a new bottle of wine.

Brendon nods somberly, punching in Patrick's number, the laptop close at his side, fingers shaking as he hears a click on the other line and Patrick's smug, answering chuckle.

" _Back for more?_ "

Brendon glances to Ryan for the go-ahead, and Ryan nods.

"Pete eagerly laid Patrick down on the floor," Brendon coos, all effected theatrics, "and kissed him senseless as he removed his own clothes and then Patrick's. Once they were both naked, Pete spit into his palm and got it wet, making his manmeat wet before pushing into Patrick with a groan -- "

" _Fucking god, you're sick_ ," Patrick chokes, and the line's dead.

Brendon and Ryan fall over in giggles, and Brendon's head connects sharply with the hard floor beneath the carpet, but the pain is sweet, a small price to pay for victory.

"Dude, wait, call him from your phone!" Brendon urges, shoving Ryan's cell at him. "Maybe we can get in another couple lines!"

It's a long shot, but Ryan's dialing furiously, pressing speakerphone and laying the phone reverently on the floor between them.

" _You guys have way too much time on your hands,_ " Patrick greets.

Ryan grabs the laptop, eager for his shot in the spotlight, and bites his lip, cringing as his eyes scan the text Brendon's highlighted. "'Oh darling,' Patrick moaned, pulling Pete up to lick the delicious cum off his face. 'You could have knocked me over with a feather!'"

" _Oh my god, they can't even get the lyrics right!_ " Patrick laughs, and hangs up.

Brendon frowns. "Why do I still feel like he won?"

Ryan shrugs, his mouth drooping into a pout. "He has a higher tolerance than we have."

Brendon raises an eyebrow. "So we'll lower it."

 

+++

 

Once they've exhausted phone lines, including the cabin's and Brendon's car phone, the war evolves to furious Sidekick texting, but just as the scores near a tie, Patrick retaliates by typing out five fucking hundred words of porn about Ryan and Spencer's _mom_ , and Ryan surrenders, whimpering in a ball on the floor and clutching his empty bottle, intermittently wailing, "I'm sorry, Ginger!" as Brendon desperately continues to raid the archives, unfazed.

Shortly after one a.m., Pete calls.

" _We have a proposal,_ " he announces casually. " _Winner takes all_."

"What's _all_?" Ryan demands, sitting up with renewed interest.

" _Spoils of war are to be determined by the winner_ ," he goes on, and somewhere in the background, Patrick yells out conditions that Pete ignores. " _The terms, should you choose to accept them, are simple. Whoever lasts the longest under an attack -- via phone, no texts -- wins. One shot each, sudden death. You can go first._ "

Brendon and Ryan exchange significant, calculating looks. Ryan nods.

"Accepted," Brendon declares.

" _Excellent. Choose your weapon_."

"Weapon is chosen and prepped," Ryan says, and Brendon snorts.

Granted, so does Pete.

" _Okay. Clock starts... now. Fire._ "

Brendon takes the honors, launching into a litany of sickening pet names, Harlequin euphemisms, and appalling descriptions he's actually worried might turn him off gay sex for the rest of this lifetime or eight. The opponents are responsive enough, making appropriate noises of horror at the most brutal passages, but Brendon's heart starts to speed up as he watches Ryan's timer (which is hard not to do with Ryan waving it obnoxiously in his face with a desperate expression), because they're going on seventeen minutes and Pete and Patrick are still fucking standing and Brendon's only got two paragraphs left.

He concludes defeatedly with, "Then Patrick orgasmed, sperm flying everywhere," and heaves a sigh.

On the other line, a few golf claps sound through the phone's tinny speaker.

" _We are unfazed by your attack,_ " Pete informs them. " _We'll be preparing our weapons. Await our call._ "

"Aye-aye, cocksucker," Ryan sighs, wearily saluting the phone before Brendon hangs up, and flopping over onto the couch. "They didn't even cave at _love nectar_! We're gonna lose, Bden."

Brendon's not so drunk or so focused on battle that he can't smile at the pet name, the one only his family, Jon, and Shane have ever used; sometimes Spencer and Pete, too, but never Ryan. Ryan's above such things.

(Much the way he was above Spencer's mom and oh god, Brendon hates Patrick forever.)

"You suck, Ross. We are _not_ gonna lose. All we gotta do is -- "

Ryan's phone springs to life, and both boys scramble to answer.

"Hello?"

" _Set your clocks, weaklings,_ " Patrick orders. " _Peter, if you may_?"

Pete clears his throat, allowing a painful stretch of silence to set the suspense, and takes a breath.

" _It didn't take long before Spencer squealed my name and I know that he's coming in his pants because of me. He groaned loudly and shoved his warm hands into my black, skintight pants, wrapping his hands around my quivering member and masturbating me hard._ "

"Oh my god, hang up," Ryan croaks, face ashen.

"No!"

"Dude, he's not reading, he's _acting_! That's cheating!"

"Shut up!"

But Pete's unaffected, business as usual. " _He pushed me harder against the wall and ground his hard member against me, with shortening breaths and small squeaks of pleasure and it was all I could do to cling and wishing the feeling would never end and then all too soon we made love explosions in our pants and I screamed Spencer's name out!_ "

Ryan doesn't even go for words this time, just throws himself at Brendon and the phone, but Brendon's quicker, rolling over and tossing the phone across the floor to safety before grabbing at Ryan, all limbs, flailing and fighting, but Brendon's only half as drunk and holds his drink twice as well, so he's got Ryan pinned in seconds, knees squeezing Ryan's hips and his hands pinning Ryan's over his head. The reverse of earlier but with stronger intent, and it must be adrenaline that's playing him because he knows Ryan's stronger now, knows he should be shoving Brendon off, but instead he's just lying there, pinned helplessly as their heads incline toward the phone, lying out of reach across the floor, Pete's voice still trailing happily through.

" _Ryan groaned loudly as Spencer devoured his pulsating manrod..._ "

"Oh, god," Ryan whimpers. "Brendon, I'm dying."

"Suck it up, you pussy!"

" _Spencer pulled off, spreading Ryan's legs and slamming into his puckered manhole, causing Ryan to moan loudly._ "

"Brendon, I swear to god," Ryan hisses, squirming in earnest now, "if you don't get off and hang up that phone I'm gonna bite off your dick."

Brendon pushes down harder, pressing Ryan's wrists hard into the floor as he fights back his laughter. "Why don't _you_ get me off, with your _pulsating manrod_?!"

On the other line, Pete cackles, and Patrick is making noises in the distance that sound like he's close to dying in some glorious, euphoric way.

" _'I want to suck your cock so bad Spencer,' he pleaded, 'I've wanted to suck on your cock and drink all your sperm every day since we were little boys!_ '"

Ryan gasps in appall, going utterly still for a full moment before launching all his strength into one heaving movement and shoving Brendon off him. Brendon's still laughing as he falls to the floor, just in time to hear Pete's triumphant laughter before Ryan clicks off the phone.

They watch one another, eyes flashing, and Brendon's still grinning, so big it must be contagious, because after a minute of heaving breaths, Ryan meets him.

"We lost, asshole," Brendon reminds him.

"Don't care," Ryan sighs, clutching a sofa cushion and flicking off the last lamp in the room before collapsing on the floor. "Sleeping. Silence. Drunk sleepy silence. Let's sleep. Come on, sleep with me."

He gracelessly whacks the floor beside him once, an apparent invitation, and Brendon crawls over, stretching out next to him as he stares up at the darkness, at the way the air just around their heads goes slightly lighter every few moments, the laptop's pulsing sleep-light inches away.

"Darkness is pretty," Ryan says sleepily.

And because Brendon's just drunk enough, and Ryan's drunker, he says, "You're pretty."

Before any repercussions can blossom, the now dreaded ting of his cell pierces the air.

"Motherfucker," he sighs, reaching out and flipping it open when he spots Jon's name.

_check ur email._

Brendon groans, rolling over and accidentally jostling Ryan in the process, earning him a grumble of protest as he pries open the laptop screen, blinking back the bright glare of the monitor and signing into his mail. Sure enough, a message from Spencer hovers at the top, boasting the headline, _If you're gonna do something, do it right._

The body of the message begins, _they're called RECS, dumbasses_ , followed by a massive quantity of [text](http://j-plash.livejournal.com/21364.html).

"Oh my god, dude. They found out."

He nudges Ryan until Ryan relents and sits up, propping himself on his elbows to peer at the screen. "'Course they did," he slurs groggily. "Decaydance is one big incestuous, co-dependent cult. No secrets ever."

Brendon chuckles, falling quiet as they both scan over the text, waiting for the horror to appear. But this one's... different. It's Brendon and Ryan, for starters, no Spencer, no Spencer's _mom_ , just. The two of them.

And it's not. _Bad_. Like that. It's not bad... at all.

It's slightly the opposite of bad. This is...

This is...

_...this is the overheated pads of Brendon’s fingers brushing over Ryan’s throat (and he knows, only he knows how much that turns Ryan on, and the fact that he knows makes it so much more potent), the bump of Ryan’s nose against sweat-slicked muscle as Brendon leans in to get a better grip on the metal he’s still winding tighter. This is the curl of Ryan’s toes in the bed-sheets because he’s already so, so hard for this and nothing’s even happening yet, this is the press of Brendon’s erection into Ryan’s stomach as he forgets—maybe—to hold himself up, this is Ryan’s cock naked and untouched and throbbing in the open air and Ryan’s throat and tongue and lips dry and tight and breathless and Brendon’s strong, wiry musician’s fingers binding him, claiming him, tying him down and pulling the press of warming steel tighter against his wrist and pulling the cool of the wrought iron bed harder against his hand and brushing a thumb across his palm firm enough to make his fingers flex and light enough to make him shiver and this is remembering all the reasons he’s in love as Brendon pulls at the shell of his ear with the barest pressure of teeth and breathes—_

_“This anything like what you were thinking?”_

Brendon swallows, his mouth suddenly parched, and thinks... _No_.

Beside him, he can sense Ryan's breath having gone shallow, and when he glances over, Ryan's eyes are wide, awake and conscious.

"When does it... get bad?" Ryan asks. His voice sounds thin, tight, and Brendon can't read into it but he can't _not_.

"Uh." Brendon clears his throat. "I don't think Pete really explained the object of the game."

Ryan's silent, and oh god, okay, that was clearly the wrong answer -- but after a moment, he chuckles, meeting Brendon's eyes, his own still sharp, sobered up and clear in the glow of the screen. "Yeah. Guess not."

Their eyes lock for another second, and another, and just before they reach that indefinite place that registers in Brendon's mind, dangerously, as the point of no return, he reaches forward and pulls the screen shut, and suddenly everything's back to black.

But he doesn't hear Ryan settle back on the floor, and he doesn't feel him shift, and it can only mean he's still there, right there, and if Brendon only leaned in a few inches...

"...Ryan?"

"Sleep," Ryan whispers and turns finally on his side, away from Brendon, before pressing his head into the pillow.


	6. Chapter 6

It's the best hangover ever.

No, it _is_. Ryan's awake first and cooks up a pile of hashbrowns, extra greasy to settle their stomachs, and Brendon will never know what makes fried food such a good counter-hangover, just that it's one of life's sweetest natural wonders.

Then Ryan announces a yoga-free day and Brendon collapses gratefully on the sofa with a groan, making extra effort to slacken his posture as much as possible, knowing the freedom won't last, and by the next morning it'll be all lengthened spines and taut stomachs as usual.

Halfway through a _Simpsons_ marathon -- in which the pit of laziness had dug itself so deep that Brendon, slumped against Ryan's side, complained for twenty minutes how badly he had to pee but refused to get up and actually do it -- Pete sends them a text, friendly and casual like they weren't engaged in war a scant twelve hours ago, that says, _you guys shoudl cover bohemian rahpsody on ur nxt tour. boss's orders._

Ryan rolls his eyes and types back, _thx for the confidence but no one plays that live, dumbass. not even queen._

 _that would be b/c mercury's dead. watch ur tenses_ , Pete responds, and Ryan visibly _seethes_.

"I can't believe he called you on _grammar_ ," Brendon gasps in awe for the third time, as Ryan types back another furious protest.

Pete concludes, _spoils of war. have preliminary arragnement ready by 10pm 2nite or i post recordings of last nights phone convos on my blog. yes i have them._

"He's lying," Ryan scoffs.

Brendon swallows hard. "Do you really want to find out?"

 

+++

 

It starts as a mess, frayed nerves and daunting expectations, but by the end of the day Brendon starts to feel like _they've_ won instead, because it's not like he hasn't begged the band a hundred and one times to cover this, and he'd learned most of the piano by ear by the time he entered high school. He even gets in about two hours' worth of gushing over Freddie Mercury before Ryan politely interrupts to inform Brendon there is probably enough room in his grave for two, if Brendon doesn't shut the fuck up and track the drums already.

The best part is that it feels like old times, fucking around with the ghetto inner workings of GarageBand, fighting to find the right sound, the right take -- so unlike the professional studio milieu that's spoiled them for years. It takes them back, and Brendon feels younger, even freer, despite the limitations of their resources; and despite the pressure, Ryan's smiles come easier, brighter; disputes are fewer, more manageable, and Brendon wonders how things might have been different, then, if they'd known what they know now. If they'd known each _other_ as they do now.

In a way, it's the first time the contrast has ever really hit him with this much force, this much clarity -- how far they've come.

By dinnertime they have a file, one delicious, six-minute file, rough but workable, and Brendon's voice is shot, fingers practically bleeding, but they did it, they own it, it's part of them, and no matter what Pete says, victory is theirs.

They should've known it wouldn't be that easy.

 _videochat_ , Pete requests, succinct and non-negotiable, and Ryan swears a blue streak.

"Hey, fuckers," Pete grins wide, toothy and pixelated on the laptop screen, and Brendon recognizes the muted, low-lit surroundings of a club.

"Where are you?" Ryan asks.

"In my office at Angels and Kings."

"Don't you have, like, businesses to run, kids to raise?"

"I'm in Chicago all week. Come on, show me what you got."

Brendon clears his throat, microphone in place as he takes his seat by the piano, and turns one last time to the computer. "I'd just like to announce we both hate you. And Twitter. Long live Queen."

And it's half pointless like this, just Ryan on guitar and Brendon on piano, both in low-hung pajama pants and faded band tees (Brendon even having squeezed into his old Queen shirt from junior high, the one he'd hidden from his parents for three years), hair sticking up in all directions, with only pre-recorded tracks of bass and drums to back them up. But it doesn't seem to matter once they launch into the music, voices worn but harmonies thriving, all exhaustion set aside for passion, and in more moments than not, Brendon finds it hard to sing for how hard he's smiling, and Ryan meets him, their eyes locking like they would on stage, drawing them into each other, into the music, and it's not perfect, but it is, all the more so for its messy realism, the raw energy they could only ever get from this, from each other.

They're so wrapped up in it as they finish that it's a good ten seconds before they register the monstrous applause thundering through the laptop speakers, nearly blowing them to bits.

Wide eyes jerk toward the screen, and Pete, manic grin and all, is slowly sliding out of frame as he shifts the computer to reveal the _entirety of the club_ , hundreds of people packed into the tiny space, crammed into the frame, cheering their performance. Brendon recognizes a few faces, Bill and Mike and Siska, Nick and De'Mar, Tom, Jon and Spence (fucking traitors), but mostly it's strangers, fans off the street, and sweet mother of god, Pete _planned_ this.

Ryan turns to Brendon, jaw gaping open and face snow-white.

Pete reappears in the frame before they can react. "Thanks, guys," he yells over the cheers. "Victory's sweet, but this is sweeter. Love you."

The image freezes; iChat emits a beep, and he's gone.

Slowly, Ryan sets down his guitar, bending shaky legs until he's curled up on the floor beside the piano bench, and leans over to rest his head on Brendon's thigh.

"Can we sue for that?"

Brendon laughs. "Come on, it was awesome."

"So _embarrassing_."

"Dude, we were great! _You_ were great! You fuckin' _rocked_ that solo, man, and everyone saw it!"

Ryan looks up, hair falling out of his eyes. "Yeah?"

"Dude, yeah."

Ryan watches him for a second, his smile stretching wide as he lifts his head, pulling himself up to his knees and bracing his hands on either side of Brendon's thighs on the bench, eyes zeroed in on Brendon's like he's the only thing left in the world for Ryan to see.

And it's --

It's there.

Time doesn't exist and it's two years ago, and they're _there_.

And Brendon -- he can't.

He can't, not again. Not _that_.

Ryan's closer, and then all Brendon can see are his eyes, and maybe that's all he's ever seen, just Ryan's eyes, watching them for the slightest shift, the barest hint that there might be anything mirrored from Brendon's own.

Ryan swallows; blinks.

Brendon says, "Come on, I'll make you dinner."

And it's.

It's like... a golf ball, rolling slowly, steadily toward the flag post, one straight line and it's so clear, you know it's going in -- but at the last minute it swerves, curling around the rim of the hole and rolling off into another direction, like it never almost-happened.

A thousand moments, a thousand dominos; remove just one, and the whole journey is lost.

Slowly, Ryan nods, and Brendon wonders what it would've been like to fall, instead of swerve.

 

+++

 

"I don't _wanna_ brush my teeth."

That's as much warning as Brendon gets before Ryan flops face-down on the bed -- which, okay, not that a warning was really in order, seeing as it's Ryan's bed, but Brendon claimed it for an after-dinner nap and never really left, because it's squishier than his (to compensate for Ryan's lack of padding, per the original argument). But suddenly it's midnight and he's wasted -- he's _spent_ \-- the last two hours sprawled sideways across the mattress, head and arms and feet hanging off, debating with Shane via text over the propriety of Internet lingo in real-life speech.

Brendon types a quick, final _b/c i said so dickface_ and clicks his phone shut, giving Ryan his attention. "Did I say you had to?"

"No, but I'll be all gross in the morning if I don't."

Brendon rolls his eyes. "Open up. Lemme see." Ryan opens his mouth, grinning big, and Brendon pretends to inspect. "I don't see anything with legs, so you're fine."

"Your standards of personal hygiene are extraordinary."

"Yeah, did I mention I jerked off all over your pillow?"

Ryan smiles, not the tight-lipped, indulgent smile he would've once given, but a genuine one, one that tells Brendon he's accepted for who he is, lame-ass jokes and bad habits and all.

"You should smile like that more often," Brendon says softly.

"Why?"

"Because it's beautiful."

He says it with an underlying implication of "duh," like it's the most obvious fact in the world. And maybe it's just too easy -- the time of night, the quiet, the way they're looking at each other with some sort of implicit expectation neither is willing to state. It reminds him of last night, when he told Ryan he was pretty, but there was darkness and alcohol then and now they're sober, vision solid over the dim light from the desk lamp across the room, and it's not -- it's not _okay_ , anymore.

Eventually, Ryan stares down at the floor. "Maybe I don't care about being beautiful."

Brendon shrugs. "Then smile because it makes _me_ smile, and you've said I have the most beautiful smile you've ever seen."

Ryan eyes him suspiciously, lips quirking. "You're such sap; Jesus. When did I say that?"

"Ages ago, when you were drunk."

Ryan smiles. "I remember."

Brendon smiles back, but looks away, because he can't remember this with eye contact.

"You hear the crickets?" Ryan asks after a minute.

Brendon nods, pulling himself a little further off the bed and stretching an arm out toward the window, pushing the glass up as far as he can manage until the screen is bared, and the gentle, rhythmic chirping becomes clear, soothing and sleepy in the brush below.

"Worst memory?" Ryan asks.

Brendon considers it for a moment, but his mind has grown practiced in raking over his memories, his thoughts, his opinions, after the last couple weeks of this; the way they'll find themselves in silence, lost in the stillness of a moment, and launch into a series of random probing questions -- best memory, worst school experience, favorite meal, most embarrassing story. It's been like a new lens on an old camera, finding out things about each other they were surprised to realize they hadn't known in the first place.

Brendon takes a breath, releases it slow. "Coming out to my parents."

He can feel Ryan's eyes on him, and then, the press of Ryan's lips against his shoulder, brief.

"I thought I'd lost them. I mean. Like. I actually thought I'd lost my family, for good."

"Yeah," Ryan whispers, his hand rubbing small circles into Brendon's arm. "I remember."

"Yours?" Brendon asks.

Ryan's quiet for a moment, and Brendon's come to learn it's not because he's searching for an answer -- Ryan tends to have himself analyzed pretty well, catalogued and categorized for whatever sort of cross-referencing self-exploration may arise -- but rather, because he's searching for the words. Words are his gift, but they don't always come easily to him. Sometimes he has to go to them instead, find a way to let them in, work them around in his mind before he can release them again.

"When I was fourteen," he says, "my dad got... like, the drunkest he ever got. And he hit me a few times. It wasn't... it could've been a lot worse, but I was out of school for a week. It's the only time he was ever... that kind of drunk. He didn't speak to me for weeks after. Not 'cause he was still mad, just... because he felt so guilty. So ashamed. And I didn't know what to say to tell him it was okay, that I forgave him... so I didn't say anything."

Brendon just -- he can't. Words, oxygen, even thoughts escape him. Ryan doesn't -- doesn't _do_ this, is never open like this. The things he's been admitting, the way he's been so afraid when he confesses, Brendon's started to wonder if some of these things Ryan's never even told Spencer. If maybe Ryan's waited years just for the right moment to let it all out -- and Brendon doesn't know why it's him, here, now... but he'll take it.

Ryan looks at him when he's silent for too long, eyes searching, but Brendon doesn't have _words_.

"What?"

"I -- I just." Brendon takes a breath, trying to focus on the crickets; the solid, grounding hum of their voices. "Whenever I think about you getting hurt, I -- I can physically feel it, like, something clenching in my chest, and I kind of can't... breathe properly."

Ryan's face softens. "That's because you love me."

Brendon meets his eyes before he can stop it, before he can think, _This?? This, now, seriously, what?_

"Um..."

"I mean," Ryan shrugs, looking away. "That's how I feel when I think of you in pain... or Spencer, or Jon."

"...Oh."

Ryan turns back, but there's a glint in his eyes this time, something significant enough to tear Brendon out of his disappointment, if only for now. "Weirdest place you ever had sex."

Brendon chuckles. "Oh, god... up against Academy's bus, while they were _in it_."

Ryan's eyes widen. "With who?!"

"Jack Marin."

"Ugh!" Ryan huffs, half amused, half indignant as he squares his shoulders, chin held high and eyes on the window. "I always knew Marin was a little whore."

Brendon snorts. "Uh... not so little, actually."

"Brendon!"

"Whatever, you asked," Brendon giggles. "You?"

Ryan sighs. "I dunno. Nowhere."

"Come on!"

"Nothing tops yours."

"Aw, come on, Ross, I bet you could top me."

And he doesn't even try to belittle it, doesn't even try to hide the way his eyebrow creeps upward, the way his lips curl into a smirk -- seductive, classic -- as Ryan turns to look at him.

Ryan smirks back. "Whatever, gas station bathroom with Jac."

"Gross, man. Talk about personal hygiene."

"Oh, but the side of a _bus_ is clearly germ-free."

"Whatever. Kay, I'm gonna get really dirty. You ready?"

"...Uh-huh."

"Biggest kink."

"Oh, Jesus."

"Come on! I've answered all your stuff."

"That's just... no."

Brendon pokes him, grinning. "What, are you into really nasty shit like watersports?"

"Ew, no! That's disgusting."

"Then spill. No pun intended."

Ryan shrugs, ducking his head. "You go first."

Brendon rolls his eyes. "Fine. Um. Okay."

Well fuck if Ryan wasn't right; it's embarrassing as hell.

But that's, maybe, vaguely related to the fact that at one point or another, he's imagined doing every last one of these with Ryan. Or _to_ Ryan. Or. Oh, god.

But that's _then_ , and this is now, and Ryan's watching him and Brendon can do this, he can.

"Uh... I..." He scratches nervously at his head. "I... like being tied up. I mean, I love topping, but... it's pretty hot to give up control sometimes."

Ryan smiles. "That's all? That's not so weird. I like that too."

Images, oh god, _images._

"Well... that's not... _all_ , per se... I'm kind of a slut for getting fingered, so."

Out of the corner of his eye, he can see Ryan swallow, slow and hard, his Adam's apple bobbing down and back up. "Yeah?"

"Yeah. Don't even have to be touched, I can get off just from that."

"Jesus, Bren."

His voice is tiny, choked and a little unsteady, like if it could topple over, it would, and Brendon can't _look at him_ , holy shit.

"And, uh..." He's _talking_? Why is he still talking?! "I... kinda have a big thing for snowballing."

"...Which is?"

Oh, lord.

"Um." And Brendon, fuck, he can _feel_ his face going hot, and why is he suddenly fifteen? He's twenty-two, a fucking rock star, and he can't articulate his favorite sex act? Brendon totally fails life forever. "It's, uh... when a guy comes in your mouth, but instead of swallowing, you kiss him, and..."

"...Oh."

"Yeah."

"That's pretty hardcore."

Brendon laughs. "Dude, hardcore is like... fucking corset piercings, or like... suspension or some shit, or... I dunno, getting fucked with two dicks at once."

"That's _possible_?!"

"Uh, yeah. Snowballing's pretty vanilla as kinks go."

"Oh."

Ryan's staring at the floor, and Brendon can't tell from the angle if he's smiling, or if he just looks... disappointed, or horrified, or. Okay, aroused is probably not an option, but his cheeks are flushed and hey, Brendon can dream.

"Your turn."

Ryan sighs, resigned to his fate, and fixes his eyes firmly on the giant dust bunny on the floor beneath the bedspread. "Rimming."

"Uh, yes please?" Brendon laughs, nervous and stupid because he's _fifteen again_ , Jesus. "Serious?"

"Yeah."

"Uh... giving, or... receiving?"

"Both."

"...I see."

Oh, god, does he ever see. He sees Ryan on his hands and knees, head resting on his folded elbows; he sees himself behind him, tongue pressing against --

"...And, uh." Ryan swallows again, and there seems to be this cloud of conflict on his face, like he doesn't really understand why he's still talking, either. "I... kind of... have a thing for... wrists."

"...Wrists."

"Yeah. Like." Ryan shifts, just a bit, closing his own fingers over one such wrist, squeezing lightly, his eyes darting up to Brendon's. "Y'know."

Brendon sort of dies a little.

He says, "Oh."

He can't stop looking. Ryan, Ryan's hands, Ryan's _fingers_ , his wrist, the inky lines of his tattoos, the snaking veins raised over the flesh...

"Dude, don't -- " Ryan smiles nervously, ducking his head. "Don't _stare_ at me, I've never told anyone that."

"I'm -- no, I'm not. I just. I hadn't... thought. I mean. I wouldn't have guessed."

Because it's like -- it's like _this_ : Brendon had been living a life deprived of, say, weed, up to this moment. Knew it existed, vaguely, but never really gave it much thought. And now he's just had his first hit. And suddenly it's all he can think about, all he can narrow his focus to; all he _wants_ , ever.

Ryan shrugs. The dust bunny, apparently, is _enthralling_.

"So you..." Brendon starts, awkward.

But Ryan looks at him, which only makes it worse, and at the same time easier, because it gives Brendon something to ground himself with, even if that something is Ryan's eyes. And he can feel it, physically, a hot jolt of freedom, the moment his brain disconnects with his body, and then his hand is reaching out -- just a few inches; they're close -- and closing around the wrist Ryan's released, Ryan's hands limp as they hang over the edge of the bed. He doesn't squeeze tight but he does squeeze, just a test. And it's a reeling sensation, the way Ryan's body goes taut, rigid and stiff and frozen, but it's weak, teetering, like he's fighting it, like all he wants to do is keen, melt into the touch, let it turn him to putty in Brendon's hands.

Ryan looks up, and the brain-body disconnect keeps Brendon from reading his eyes, but it's not like he can turn back now.

"So..." He smiles, just a little, just to take the edge off. "So this gets you -- "

Ryan's eyes drop, sharp. "Brendon."

And it's over -- a swerve that was almost a drop. Brendon jerks his hand away and bites his lip and prays to any god that will listen that he can crawl into a hole and die now, please, thanks.

But Ryan -- fuck, Ryan just looks up, gives him a crooked little smile like it's nothing.

"Not fair," he says pointedly, one eyebrow raised, and nudges Brendon's shoulder.

Brendon smiles back. "Sorry."

"You're such an asshole."

"I know."

He bumps Ryan's shoulder, reciprocal, and lets himself flop flat against the mattress. Ryan follows soon enough, their eyes closed as the crickets chirp away like nothing happened. At one point, someone gets up to turn off the light. They might listen for an hour, maybe two, Brendon can't tell. Just silence, and crickets. Sometimes the crickets will stop, for a breath or two, and they can hear other bugs. A distant ripple of the lake. Bullfrogs, rustling leaves. A raccoon, maybe. And it's kind of extraordinary that everything keeps going, keeps living -- even them. It's like they just keep pushing and pushing toward that point of no return, and falling short every time, falling back to where they were. But whatever ice they're skating on gets thinner every time, and every time they fall back, they make another crack in the surface.

Brendon's half asleep, and metaphors aren't much use after midnight, but it makes more sense than it should. Right now it's about the only thing left that makes sense at all.

"Brendon?"

"I know, I'm going, I'm going," Brendon mumbles, shifting and trying to work up the energy to pull himself off the bed, down the hall to his own room.

"No, I was just -- " Ryan's hand shoots out, closing around Brendon's wrist and sliding down to his fingers as Brendon starts to move. "I meant, stay. You can stay."

So Brendon stays.

He lies back down, carefully, closes his eyes against the darkness, and waits -- five minutes, ten, twenty -- for Ryan to let go of his hand.

He doesn't.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, try to guess which Traumatizing Sex Tale was stolen from Colin's real life! Anyway, hold your patience a little longer. Chapter 6 is... something-er. By the way, [this](http://www.facebook.com/group.php?gid=56658306481) now exists.
> 
>  **Dedication:** [](http://alphabetatoast.livejournal.com/profile)[**alphabetatoast**](http://alphabetatoast.livejournal.com/) for [cello!fic](http://alphabetatoast.livejournal.com/60698.html); [](http://redorchids.livejournal.com/profile)[**redorchids**](http://redorchids.livejournal.com/) for the beautiful lyrics (more to come); [](http://livinglifeloud.livejournal.com/profile)[**livinglifeloud**](http://livinglifeloud.livejournal.com/) and [](http://stereotypeloser.livejournal.com/profile)[](http://stereotypeloser.livejournal.com/)**stereotypeloser** for nitpicking the French with me.

**5.**

 

 

_Maybe he's going crazy. Ryan always said he would._

_There's piano, live from somewhere, soft but clear, and Brendon looks down at his hands: he hasn't touched the keys all day. Ryan hasn't in months, Jon's glued to Brendon's side, and Spencer doesn't play._

_Maybe today's all a dream._

_Brendon never would've thought he'd wish into a dream the day Ryan Ross kissed him, but after said kiss, there may be nothing that surprises him ever again._

_The music stops._

_Spencer's hunched over the kitchen table with a cup of murky looking coffee, sparing Jon a halfhearted glare at having to make his own, inferior and tasteless to Jon's magic brew; but his eyes choose Brendon as their destination, softening as Brendon stares back, taking in Spencer's tired face and limp, scruffy hair, frustrated fingers having raked through the strands one time too many._

_He -- motherfucker, he **knows**._

_Brendon doesn't know if he's mad at Ryan for telling, mad at Spencer for knowing, or mad at himself for being too tired to be mad at anyone._

_"I'm... uh, shower," Jon mumbles, squeezing Brendon's fingers and slipping from the room, cupping one hand gently over Spencer's shoulder as he leaves._

_"Music room," Spencer says to his coffee._

_"What?"_

_"Ryan. That's where he is."_

_Brendon swallows. "I wasn't -- I didn't."_

_But he was, and he did, and Spencer looks up, and he knows._

_Brendon hangs his head and just, walks, lets his feet shuffle him across the floor, listless, toward the living room._

_"Bren."_

_It's soft, softer than his eyes, even his touch, as Brendon feels a hand on his hip, guiding him back around until he and Spencer are eye to eye. Brendon looks down into sharp blue, just dark enough to lose himself, but bright enough to remind him he can't. He remembers how bright they looked in the dark, just the two of them in the hotel room after the club, no drama, just smiles; heated breaths and shallow gasps, **Just tonight? Just tonight** \-- and he wonders, suddenly, how much easier his life might've been if he could've just fallen in love with Spencer or Jon instead._

_Spencer slips his hand into Brendon's, squeezing. It's gentler than Jon's touch, in intent, but all the same harder, tighter; drummers tend to have a skewed awareness of their own strength._

_Brendon squeezes back with all he's got._

_"It'll be fine," Spencer says._

_Sometimes, Brendon thinks, lies are underrated._

_The notes start up again, quieter, when Brendon reaches the door of the music room. Distantly registering[Chopin](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0_EE9XIfxZs&feature=related), he pushes inside and there's -- well, _perfection_ is the word his brain offers, and even though said brain is tired and frayed, nostalgic and romantic and sad, he's not about to fight it._

_It's nothing special, to anyone else: it's just a boy -- a **man** , they're adults now, sometimes it's hard to remember when you feel this small and helpless -- at the piano, tree-length spine curved slightly in concentration, head bent over the keys as he glances back and forth from his fingers to the open book. He sighs, pausing and repeating the same measure over and over with a forced deliberation, altering the tempo or the rhythm; but he isn't satisfied, and each time the line of tension drawn between his shoulders grows thicker, tighter._

_"It's C," Brendon says quietly._

_Ryan's posture straightens, but he doesn't turn around, just stares straight ahead out the window, past the night-blackened glass, catching Brendon in the reflection._

_Brendon takes the silence as allowance, stepping forward and breathing out relief when Ryan slowly slides over on the bench, making room for him. He slips into the space, trying to make himself as small as possible, not to let their bodies touch, and lifts a hand to the book._

_"See, the little square with the lines -- that means you don't play it sharp, it's just regular C."_

_Ryan sighs. "I always forget that. I'm used to playing by ear."_

_"'S'okay." Breathe, in, out, they're talking. They're talking music, and everything's fine. Spencer was right, it's fine. "It sounds really fucking good, though."_

_Ryan shrugs, shoulders hunching further as he curls in on himself, eyes on the keys._

_"I didn't know you were learning this."_

_"You told me to," Ryan says._

_"I -- what?"_

_Ryan turns, and something about eye contact always makes you feel twenty times closer to the person than you actually are. "Like... right after we met? When I told you I wanted to learn, study something classical. You said I should try Chopin. Said it would like, 'suit me' or something."_

_Brendon doesn't know whether to cry or sing out; to think that Ryan remembered. Remembered something so small, so long ago, even though he realizes it wasn't small at all, and now it feels like yesterday._

_"It does," he says softly. "Chopin's kind of... sad, sometimes. Romantic without meaning to be... it's gentle, soft. Sometimes people don't realize how much there is to it because it's quiet, because it sounds nice, fades easily into the background. But there's a lot going on under the surface that you don't really see or feel until you play it."_

_He doesn't know where the words are coming from; maybe it's just **music** , a language on its own, separate from English, separate from the part of his brain filled with empty, human words, all the things he wants to say to Ryan and can't._

_Maybe... maybe this says more._

_"Music is everything to you, isn't it?" Ryan says without looking up._

_Brendon blinks back a sudden prick behind his eyelids. "Not everything."_

_Ryan stares at the keys, bottom lip caught mercilessly between his teeth._

_"Hey, let's try -- " Brendon shifts his position a bit, hands hovering over the keys as his eyes scan the sheet music. "This version's got the second piano."_

_"What?"_

_"There's an arrangement that -- see this part, below the first bar line -- it's for a second piano, or a second pair of hands -- I can play it in the lower octaves. It sounds amazing, you wanna try?"_

_For a moment, Ryan's still, like he's considering whether or not this means anything it shouldn't._

_In the end, he nods._

_"'Kay." Brendon's voice is low, soft, so as not to disturb the piece they're about to bring to life, or the delicate balance they're both teetering in -- at least if they fall, maybe the music will catch them. Their hands hover in place, and Brendon watches Ryan stroke out the first note before he joins in. It feels like the same thing he always waits for, Ryan's lead, simply for the opportunity to follow._

_The concerto movement springs tenfold from the instrument as four hands sink into the keys, richer and fuller, the sounds vibrant, lush, vibrations resounding through their fingers and all through their bodies, and Brendon's eyes drop shut as they near the climax, everything suddenly too much. The music filling every atom of oxygen in the air until they're breathing it, tasting it; the press of Ryan's hip against his, the way their forearms brush as their notes overlap; and, almost as an afterthought, the beaded bracelet bearing Brendon's name that is still, **still** circled around Ryan's wrist, just as one similar, bearing Ryan's name, is wrapped around Brendon's, an old gesture in half jest and veiled intent -- still, after all these years, enough years for them to forget how much it was never allowed to mean._

_**So, what, we belong to each other now?** _

_**Yeah. You're stuck with me.** _

_Brendon never forgot._

_He was sure Ryan would take it off after a few hours of indulgence, before the night's show, but he never did, and Brendon swore he'd never let himself ask why._

_The memory fades with the music, and it's long moments before Brendon opens his eyes. For some reason he expects to see Ryan staring at him, waiting so he can tell Brendon everything he wants to hear, explain himself and the kiss and the universe, and Brendon will take him up to his bed and make love to him with all the cliches, all the nonsense and impossible perfection it's bound to be._

_Ryan's still staring at the keys._

_"That was beautiful," he whispers, and it sounds like an answer._

_"It was," Brendon breathes, eyes on Ryan._

_When Ryan turns, the angle changes everything, his eyes shining precariously, the muscles of his forehead bunched together. He looks like an apology._

_Brendon squeezes his fists together to keep from reaching out. "Can we talk?"_

_Ryan's breath spills out slowly, imperceptibly if they weren't so close. "I think... we should... maybe... just -- "_

_\-- forget it._

_Brendon feels his jaw clench, teeth pressing hard together as his eyes fall to his lap._

_"Bren -- I just. It was -- "_

_\-- a mistake._

_" **Please** ," Ryan whispers. "I think it's for the best."_

_Because there's nothing left to do, Brendon nods._

_"Brendon, I love you. You know I -- "_

_His voice is weakening, cracking and high-pitched and, he can't. Brendon can't sit here and watch Ryan break down and refuse to talk and. He can do a lot, tolerate a lot, keep his strength for a lot, but this, he can't._

_"It's okay," Brendon says, pulling himself to his feet. "I'm just. It's late. I'm. Bed."_

_"Brendon."_

_When he turns around, Ryan's on his feet, inches away and that stubborn one inch taller, and Brendon doesn't get a chance to be blindsided by the pain in Ryan's face because Ryan's face is suddenly pressed into his shoulder, arms wrapped vice-like around him._

_Because there's nothing left to do, Brendon squeezes back, tight the way Ryan likes. Ryan never wants anyone to act like he's too fragile, like he's going to break, so Brendon hugs him the way he hugs Spencer, or Jon, or Shane, or Zack. The only difference is, with the others, Brendon doesn't feel like **he's** the one about to break._

_Ryan responds, tightening, and Brendon can feel the beaded outline of Ryan's bracelet digging into his back._

_Because there's nothing left to do, Brendon whispers, "I love you too."_

 

+++

Waking up with a raging boner is nothing out of the norm for Brendon. If you figure it, okay, he spent the first two years of puberty completely repressed, only jerking off eight times and every time feeling so guilty he was terrified to leave his room for fear everyone would know, like there'd be an "I Heart Autoeroticism" sign on his forehead framed in neon lights, visible to everyone but him. Add that to the fact that he's only twenty-two to begin with, and there's probably some mathematical formula for this, maybe, but the point is, all the horny is completely justified.

Waking up with a raging boner in Ryan's bed, well. That's a little weirder, but it's not like it's never happened. Six years sharing buses, hotel rooms, and the cot in Spencer's basement, coupled with the fact that he's been resigned to an ongoing boner with Ryan's name on it for every last one of those years -- well, there's probably another formula for that too, but the law of probability is pretty basic.

Waking up with a raging boner in Ryan's bed with sex noises drifting into his ears from the adjoining bathroom... this is new.

This is the sound of running water, the indistinct layer of steam creeping into the bedroom, thick and hot, carrying the scent of Ryan's shampoo and the tiny, barely audible sounds that only Brendon would ever pick up, but dear god, they're _there_.

Brendon sits up in the bed, propped on his elbows, torn between relieved and disappointed to find himself still fully clothed, and turns his head to peer out the window, like he's trying to make sure this is all real -- because this is seriously straight out of one of his lamer, less original fantasies. But everything's traitorously intact: He can make out the trees reaching high above the cabin, strips and slices of sunlight stretching through the glass and settling haphazardly across the room, the bedspread, the dresser, the walls, Ryan's copy of _Being Zen_ on the nightstand. Brendon squints through the brightness, imagining the lake just below the line of the window, the tire swing by the shore and the hammock filled with pine needles; the dock that sways amiably when anyone walks across it; and the little rowboat they use to paddle out to the tiny scrap of an island when they're too lazy to swim.

It's all painfully real. Then it's back: from the bathroom, muted through the rush of water, a high-pitched, disconnected sort of squeak-moan that Brendon, if his brain were _anywhere in that place_ , could use as blackmail forever.

But Brendon's brain is not in that place. Brendon's brain has relocated south. Permanently. We're talking retirement condo in Key West.

Motherfucking _Ross_.

It's silent after that but Brendon's legs are already dragging him out of bed, across the soft pad of carpet. The bathroom door is cracked, pulled to the edge, but Brendon's hand is pushing it open without permission, and he's at once grateful for the support of the doorframe when the image hits him.

His fingers are gripping the white wooden molding of the frame hard enough to break it off, knuckles instantly colorless as his eyes adjust to the haze of steam swirling up through the shower and above the top of the glass sides, a teasing veil to the sight within: Ryan's body stretched long, one arm high above his head and braced against the wall beside the chrome showerhead, fingers curling in vain against the silver-gray ceramic tiles. Brendon's eyes trail over the peach-colored line of his body, down over the slight slump of his shoulders, head bent low to his chest, intensifying the curve of his neck, mouth open and flaming red in the water's heat, eyes shut to the outside world. Down, down further, over the jut of his hips and the delicate arch of his lower back, the S-curve where it meets his ass, and his other hand...

Oh sweet Jesus, his other hand.

There's nothing to see clearly through all the steam, but it's clear enough. Long, heat-loose fingers curled around his erection, stroking slow and lazy, almost teasing, and Brendon is pretty damn sure this has just ruined him for every other fantasy stored in his stockpile, forever and ever amen.

His conscience, mocking him in its lack of use, allows him about five good seconds of staring before something snaps inside him -- something in the form of another tiny, breathy moan from the shower -- that sends Brendon into hyperawareness and running back to -- the _bed_ , _Ryan's bed_ of all places, what the _fuck_ \-- scrambling back under the covers to hide his guilt.

Brendon is so, utterly, completely pathetic.

And also very, very fucked.

He spends the next five minutes in clear, Zen-like ( _ha_ ) focus, eyes clamped shut until they hurt from the effort, fists clenched tightly at his sides, using the kind of focus energy he uses for performing, willing the most disgusting thoughts to fill his mind, ease his dick back into submission. He thinks of the time he walked in on his sister having sex, thinks of the time Dylan found the leftover birthday cake and graciously decided to give it back, all over the carpet. He thinks of Two Girls One Cup (thanks for _nothing_ , Beckett), about cleaning his bathroom, and the time his brother dared him to eat a worm and he did.

It works. His own maturity impresses him (maturity or disturbing repertoire of gross experiences; either way), and he breathes. Long and hard and, oh, _words_.

But he feels almost normal by the time Ryan emerges, towel wrapped low around his hips, looking startled to find Brendon awake. Something flushes in his cheeks that isn't from the heat, and he blinks.

"Hey."

"Hey," Brendon echoes.

Ryan swallows. "Um. Did I... wake you?"

The quip forms in Brendon's mind like a nasty, prearranged impulse, and he turns onto his side away from Ryan, snuggling down into the pillow and biting his lip.

"Nah, I was already up."

 

+++

"Un, uh, drink, monsieur?"

Ryan's smiling before he even looks up, squinting over the tops of his ungodly huge sunglasses as he sets down his guitar, accepting the proffered glass with a chuckle.

"Une," he corrects.

"Huh?"

" _Une boisson._ A drink. 'Boisson' is feminine."

"Psh, _you're_ feminine."

Ryan's foot extends a little awkwardly from where he's sprawled on the dock to kick at Brendon's leg, before Brendon whimpers and sits down next to him, legs dangling over the wooden edge until his bare feet hit the cool water. He briefly considers bursting into another round of "Stacy's Mom," replacing every mention of "Stacy" with "Spencer," but the first three times he'd done it since wartime with Pete and Patrick, Ryan had hit his arm hard enough to bruise and, well, Brendon only has so many arms.

"Since when do you know French?" he muses, sipping the Sprite-vodka-lemonade mix he'd whipped up, closing his eyes against the warm sun as the ice cubes clink together in the glass. "Like you weren't pretentious enough already."

"Had to have four years of a foreign language at my high school, asshole. Unlike your inferior education."

"Hey, I can say 'fuck you' three different ways in Spanish."

"Classy."

"All right then." Brendon turns his head, narrowing his eyes as he grins. "You're so classy, say something in French. Something real."

Ryan rolls his eyes. "No."

"Come on."

"I don't remember any."

"Liar."

"Nag."

"Please?" He's working his puppy eyes now, but it's a weak effort, a last resort; he knows Ryan's immune by now. "One sentence?"

Ryan sighs. "Are we writing music or not?"

Brendon sighs back, harder, just for show. "Can't believe you brought your acoustic out on the _dock_. One little slip and..."

To demonstrate, he shoves gently at Ryan, watching him instinctively brace his weight with his free arm.

"I will kill you and dump the body in the lake," Ryan informs him casually. "Weigh it down with rocks. No one'll know."

They share a smile, and unbidden in Brendon's mind rise the words _I love you_.

Luckily, they stay there.

"What were you playing?" Brendon asks.

Ryan shrugs. "Nothing. Just... crap. I can't get it, it doesn't sound right."

"Show me the lyrics."

It's the strangest pause in the world, because Ryan hasn't kept his lyrics secret since a week after they met. Brendon had always figured once they'd opened that door, there was no shutting it, no going back. It's such a small catalyst to ignite the twinge of rejection that surges through him, but.

But it's _Ryan_.

That's explanation enough -- and yet, never is.

"I don't really have any," Ryan mumbles.

"You never write music without lyrics."

Ryan shrugs again.

"Dude, I -- what the hell? You've never -- lemme see. Please?"

Ryan's eyes meet his, suddenly, bright golden amber in the bright afternoon sun, dark and liquid in hot contrast to the pale, smooth planes of his bare torso. Brendon can see his fingers tightening around the notebook laid open on the wooden surface by his side, and finally, they squeeze around the edge, handing it to Brendon as his eyes drop.

"It's just. A couple lines, it's nothing."

Tenting one hand over his eyes to block the sun, he reads, slowly, the first quick scan over the text making him realize how little there is, and how much he'll want to savor it.

He reads it twice, three times -- letters first, words second... and finally, with a vague, churning lump rising in his chest, meaning.

_Dancing in silence across burning coals  
"I'll never say no, if your lips do the asking."_

He looks up, and it's surprising to see Ryan watching him, his face somehow dark despite the glare of the sun. Ryan generally stares at the floor when he shares his lyrics, waits for the first approving _Yeah, it's great_ or even a _Well, it's a start_. He doesn't mind a negative reception; any reaction is acceptable, but his instinct is to freeze and panic until he gets one, any at all.

Brendon swallows, the first to look away. "What does it mean?"

"Who knows, what does any of our stuff mean?" Ryan lies.

But Brendon has enough instinct of his own, enough that it's digging a mantra into his brain even before he can think: _Not now. Not now_.

"Play me the bit you were playing before."

Ryan does, and it's a simple progression, less ornate than their usual style -- maybe, Brendon muses, to compensate for the complexity of the lyrics, because he knows fully well these aren't random pretty words spilled onto paper in the haze of drugged-out bliss. The music's pretty, though, but Ryan's right: something's off.

"Can I -- " Brendon extends his hands hesitantly toward the instrument, and Ryan surrenders it, their fingertips brushing as the guitar transfers hands. "I just thought... maybe if you made the fourth a minor, like, harmonic, instead... it might..."

He plays his revision, trying to recall the patterns of Ryan's notes, and when he finishes, Ryan's looking at him like he wants to kiss him.

And -- ah. Because that's. Not just an expression anymore.

Not with them, not ever. Not for two years, at least.

Brendon shrugs, feeling his face flush, but it's not the sun. "Maybe. I dunno. Just an idea."

He sips his drink, scratches the back of his neck, wrinkles his nose against the sun, and even plucks out another couple of notes, random, pointless, to pass the seconds.

Ryan's still staring.

Brendon isn't strong enough for this.

Finally he smiles, light, trying to break the shell, the fucking... _barricade_ , whatever. "What?"

Something darts across Ryan's eyes; a sudden awareness, maybe, or a closing-off. Some things Brendon still can't tell, but soon enough Ryan blinks, blinks it all away and swallows, eyes still sharp on Brendon's.

"J'ai tellement peur de ce que tu me fais sentir."

Brendon blinks back. "What?"

Another flash over his eyes, and they widen, like he's snapping out of a trance, not sure of what he's been doing all the while. "Nothing."

"Dude!" Brendon grins. "Come on, you can't just -- tell me what it means!"

Ryan shakes his head, staring down at the hot, faded wood of the dock, running his fingers over one of the planks.

"That is _so_ not fair," Brendon gasps.

"I don't remember what it means."

It's such a bad lie that Brendon knows he must be desperate, silently begging Brendon to let it drop, and it goes against all his willpower to do it, but it's Ryan, and... for as much of his willpower as Ryan steals, he also inspires it, strengthens it, in double.

"It's good." Ryan nods at the guitar. "I like it, what you did. It's perfect."

Brendon shrugs. "It's your words."

"What?"

"Your words make it... whatever it is. I can't write music without your words. Nothing meaningful, anyway. Little ditties here and there, but... not real stuff. Not without you."

"I love your little ditties," Ryan protests.

Brendon smirks. "That sounds so dirty."

Ryan smiles.

And like that, it blows over. All the dense, darkening clouds over their heads, they drift off as easily as they come; they've been doing it for days, weeks, maybe years, and Brendon is starting to wonder when the storm is going to hit, and whether or not they'll make it to the other side.

 

+++

Everyone says it's Ross who's the eighty-year-old grandpa, but right now, Brendon feels like his best buddy on bingo night at the old folks' home.

Sorry; the _assisted living community_.

Right now it feels like the only thing missing from his lap is -- well, Ryan (hey, self awareness is a virtue), but -- like, a cat. He misses the dogs, suddenly, Dylan and Bogart and Coppola (Shane had _insisted_ ). Still, there's a fair bit of warmth filling him up as he pages through the photo album he'd completely forgotten had been at the bottom of his suitcase. It's one of those big, thick ones (heh, where's Pete when you need someone to laugh at your bad jokes), a gift from his parents before they'd left on the first tour. He's filled it up with candids and Polaroids, tons from Tom and later, Jon, but he hasn't added anything to it in months. California wasn't... a bad experience, but it wasn't anything he'd care to remember. The music was good, and the album, but it was lonely, a lot. Ryan and Jon were gone for a good bit of the time, bonding and scalding themselves with bonfires and in general failing at every aspect of life they could get their hands on, but it was good for them. Brendon knew they needed it. That Ryan needed it -- someone who would just sit there with him, hour after hour, day after day and never judge, never say anything Ryan didn't need to hear.

Still, he doesn't mind that the pages end with their last tour; that palm trees and beaches are absent, even Disneyworld. He'll go back, someday. With someone he loves.

Because, ew, Brendon is apparently a total disgusting fucking romantic.

He huffs and flips a page, smiling down at the splay of photos from the day he "styled" Spencer's hair.

"Oh my god, the book!"

Ryan's face lights up as he appears over Brendon's shoulder, plaid pajama pants (Spencer's, from like, _tenth grade_ ) balanced precariously low on his hips and an oversized t-shirt (Dan's) hanging off one slender shoulder. He scrambles quickly around to the couch, folding up his miles of limbs until he's scrunched against Brendon's side, a cup of tea steaming from his hands.

"I haven't seen this in ages," he sighs, wistful. "Can we start at the beginning?"

Brendon smiles to himself, warmth flooding his bones as he feels Ryan press against him, heated from the shower, smelling like green tea and Irish Spring and... oddly enough, Brendon's shampoo.

Ryan giggles as he flips back to the first page: them and Spencer and Brent, maybe a month after Brendon's arrival, all dressed up in stuff Brendon's pretty sure they snagged from Spencer's dad's closet, brandishing guitars and drumsticks like they were already something big.

"Your _hair_!" Ryan wails.

"Your _acne_ ," Brendon counters.

"Whatever, I still got pussy."

"I could have! I was repressed!"

"Uh-huh. Wasn't nobody repressin' your _dick_."

Brendon sighs. "Sadly, no."

Ryan chuckles, pressing closer and reaching out to turn the page.

"God, I was hot then," Brendon muses, tracing a finger over a shot from 2006, the glasses-scarf-jacket ensemble that scored him more ass that year than any other to date.

Ryan laughs. "You really were. What happened?"

"What happened?! I tried to accommodate your stupid hippie-sixties phase, that's what happened!"

He pokes Ryan in the side, and Ryan giggles, staring down at the picture. "Yeah... this was a good look on you. Even if you did kinda look like a back-to-school ad for Target."

Brendon smiles. "You make me sound like a Barbie."

"Hmm... Fall Fashion Brendon? Complete with interchangeable scarves?"

"Only _you_ could make 'interchangeable scarves' sound normal." Brendon rolls his eyes. "Oh, but dude, dude, can you imagine if they made Barbies out of us?!"

"...This conversation has gone too far."

"No, man, it would be _awesome_!" Brendon shifts in his seat to accommodate the sudden burst of passion. "Just think, yours could come with like, eighty-three scarves. And Spencer's could have like, a zillion shoes. And Jon would have like twenty pairs of flip-flops. And a detachable beard!"

Ryan sighs, idly flipping another page. "I just get this sinking feeling you'd end up taking all their clothes off and leaving them in compromising positions around the bus."

Brendon grins. It's _true_. "I just think their lack of genitalia intimidates you."

"...I think it would intimidate me more if they _had_ genitalia."

"Whatever, you're just afraid they'd make your dick too small."

"They would!" Ryan whines. "If they made it to scale, no way mine would fit in those tight little Ken Doll pants."

"Yeah, me neither."

He doesn't miss Ryan's slow, subtle eyebrow raise, but it's not like Ryan's trying to hide it.

"Oh come on, don't _even_!" Brendon huffs, shoving at him.

"I wasn't!" Ryan protests, giggling and curling into himself against the shove. "I wasn't, sorry!"

Brendon huffs, unconvinced, and sharply turns another page, just for effect.

"Dude, I. Oh, Jesus." Ryan takes a breath, forces it out fast. "Okay. Look. Being completely objective and heterosexual about this, you have a very nice dick."

Brendon's gaze narrows, still dubious, because hey, Ryan hasn't even seen him hard, and Brendon's totally a grower. But Ryan just rolls his eyes, turning back to the book and flipping the page.

"Besides," Ryan shrugs, voice low, "it's not the size that matters, it's how you use it."

He looks up to find Brendon smirking smokily, one eyebrow quirked as his voice drops: "Trust me, Ross, I know how to use it."

Ryan smiles but bites his lip against it, turning back to the photos. "I know."

"...Do you, now?"

He shrugs, cheeks flushed as he works to fight the grin. "I heard you and Jack."

For a second Brendon has no reaction, at least none that he can let out -- because just the thought of Ryan listening, Ryan hearing them, Ryan _hearing him come_ , is about all he needs for a blissful, mind-numbing heart attack right about now. He stops it before it can go any further, before he can fantasize about the sounds turning Ryan on, about Ryan thrusting a hand down his pants to wrap his fingers around...

Right. Stopping.

"I don't remember this one."

It takes a moment for Ryan's voice, mellow and deadpan as ever, to snap Brendon back to reality, following Ryan's eyes to the page laid open across their laps. He doesn't have to ask which picture drew the reaction, and suddenly nothing, no fantasy in any of his forbidden stores, could seduce the blush that's heating his face now as he stares down, at himself, at Ryan, on the page. There's nothing explicit, nothing blatantly incriminating about the shot; it's the subtleties that betray it: the tangle of their fingers between their bodies on the lounge sofa; the look in Brendon's eyes as he gazes at Ryan, the smile he knows, oh god, he _knows_ he only ever offers to Ryan, but he'd never imagined it was this obvious. Maybe Ryan doesn't remember, but Brendon does. He remembers it had been Ryan to join their hands; he remembers the streak of pure fucking _happiness_ that had snaked warmly through his veins as Ryan turned to him, his smile indulgent but so, so real, slipped his hand into Brendon's and whispered, "Happy Birthday, hot stuff."

There's nothing, nothing in the world to mistake for the look in Brendon's eyes. It's there, simple, plain as day for the whole god damned world to see.

The thing is, nothing's changed: it's the exact same way he looks at Ryan every fucking day.

Brendon swallows hard, flipping the page. "Me neither."

 

+++

"Help me."

Spencer sighs, and Brendon can hear the typing stop; the unmistakable clap of the laptop falling shut. " _All right, what?_ "

"Tell me, fucking _tell_ me you took French in high school."

" _I... took French in high school_."

"But did you?! Really?"

" _Well, yeah, of course!_ " Spencer laughs. " _Would've been stupid not to; I copied Ryan's notes for three years. So what?_."

"Spencer, I love you."

" _Brendon, you're weird._ "

"I need you to translate."

" _Ugh, I'm looking up Halo cheats, I'm so fucking close to beating Tom it's not even funny, and Jon's fucking **helping** him, it's so mean. Make Ryan translate._ "

"I can't, he won't tell me what it means!"

Spencer chuckles like he knows the joke, and Brendon knows he's already on Ryan's side, just like that, automatic. " _Sucks. So what'd he say?_ "

"I don't know! If I knew I'd, like, Google it!"

" _Then how the fuck am I supposed to help you?!_ "

"I -- I dunno, help me sound it out. I kinda remember what it sounds like. Sort of. Maybe."

There's a dead silence, before Spencer says, in all sincerity, "I hate you."

Brendon smiles. Winning is awesome, but winning with Spencer is _glory_.

It's ten minutes, three look-ups in Spencer's pocket French dictionary that he hasn't used "since eleventh grade, Jesus fuck, Brendon," and four rounds of panic flare-ups in Brendon's chest, convinced Ryan's going to come home early saying he couldn't find anything on the grocery list (wouldn't be the first time), but it's like a light bulb over his head and a breath of coveted fresh air all at once when Spencer finally echoes a phrase that Brendon's mind registers instantly as _Yes_.

" _Is that --_ " Spencer's voice is small, uncertain in a way Brendon's never heard. " _Is that it_?"

"Yeah, fuck, yeah, that's it, you're awesome! What does it mean?"

The dead silence comes to life somehow, like it's breathing, thriving on its own, louder than words, louder than screaming.

"...Spence? Come on, tell me."

" _...I can't_."

"What the fuck?!"

" _Brendon, I... I... he said this to you?_ "

"Oh my god, do you have a death wish? Fucking tell me!"

" _I can't_ ," Spencer chokes. " _I -- that'd be like -- like... spilling Ryan's secrets. I can't. He didn't mean for you to -- I'm sorry. It's not for me to tell. I can't._ "

Brendon doesn't answer. Some times are easier than others to accept that certain parts of his life are just always going to be more eternally fucked than the average person's, but this. This. Is just. It's twenty different kinds of unfair, all of them new and unfamiliar, and it's not a game anymore; it's lies. It's secrets and lies and the frustrated sting of tears behind his eyes, and this isn't like Ryan, it's just what they fought over, keeping things from each other that aren't supposed to be kept.

" _Hey_ ," Spencer sighs, softening his voice. " _Look, it's not -- Ryan's not trying to be a bitch, okay? And it's nothing bad, it's just. Look. I -- I've got something you can say to him. That's all I can do. I mean, you'll have to memorize it; can you?_ "

Brendon grips fistfuls of his jeans and squeezes, eyes pressed tightly shut. "Try me."

 

+++

Brendon is a firm believer that stubbornness, applied appropriately, is a virtue.

He doesn't want to let it go. He just wants it to... go.

It gets easier the more he lets Spencer's words play over in his head -- _It's nothing bad_ \-- but that's only a fleeting comfort, every time, because his mind beelines to _Then why won't he tell me?_ and more or less dead-ends there, only with a few more expletives and exclamatory punctuation.

He lets other thoughts take over after awhile, when they arise: Ryan pressed against him, the photo album on their lap, their quiet, just-for-each-other voices and soft laughter filling the warm, heavy air between them. The way Ryan had looked at him before it came out, all foreign and accented, fucking meaningless to Brendon but everything to Ryan. He'd looked pained, like he wanted nothing more than to work up the nerve to say it in English, and that one strikes all the right nerves, because if there's anything Brendon knows like the back of his own hand, it's the pain of being plagued by the simple combinations of words you can't say.

He can hear the front door open downstairs, but he doesn't uncurl himself from the foot of Ryan's bed. It feels as much his bed now as Ryan's, and some dim corner of his brain warns danger, but when Ryan clasps his hand night after night and whispers, "Stay," in that secret shred of time just before the night closes in on them, Brendon's only human.

Footsteps climb the stairs, and a rustling of plastic grows loud enough for Brendon to identify as shopping bags, before Ryan's shuffling into the room, dumping the items on the floor.

"Hey. You okay?"

Brendon looks up, accusations pushing toward the tip of his tongue and dying there as Ryan leans down to run a hand through Brendon's hair, brow knit in concern.

"Fine," Brendon mumbles, voice gravelly from the hours out of use.

Ryan pushes the bags around with his feet, making room to kneel at the side of the bed as he slides his hand down to Brendon's face, touching and pressing in patches. "You're all flushed. You feel warm."

Brendon leans into the touch, smiling as Ryan's cool palm cups his cheek. "'M fine."

"You want a cold washcloth? Advil? Some water?"

"I love you."

And it's.

It's.

It's... _happened_ , Brendon realizes with a sinking flutter in his stomach; he's finally reached the breaking point, and it's starting slow, little jagged cracks in the ice, and this is the first.

He knows it won't take many more before the surface splits, before he goes plunging into the icy water, fighting for breath and hoping someone will pull him out.

But Ryan, Ryan's so _good_ , only falters for a blink, maybe two, something flashing over his face and disappearing before he smiles, gentle and sweet and vulnerable and everything Brendon fell in love with, everything Ryan never shows, everything he doesn't let himself become.

"Love you too," he whispers.

"I'm fine," Brendon repeats, pulling himself up halfway until he can drag himself to the head of the bed, sprawled properly, long-ways across the mattress. "Just tired. And kinda freaked out. I don't like you driving alone around here when it's dark."

"Well, I got sick of you bitching about not having any more Oreos," Ryan counters, digging a few items out of a bag and tossing said Oreos onto the bed. "Oh, and I got this, so don't use it, it's mine."

He holds out a pump bottle of moisturizing face wash, and Brendon bursts out laughing.

"Shut up! It says 'for men'!"

"Yeah, _gay_ men, who iron their gay jeans and put on gay foundation and gay lip gloss before they go out to gay it up in big gay clubs."

Ryan's eyes shrink to slits. "You would know."

He spins around to stalk off to the bathroom, but Brendon shoots a hand out, catching a shirt tail. "Wait, wait, lemme see that."

Ryan reluctantly holds out the bottle, huffing while Brendon squints at the label before launching into an epic laughter sequel.

"Fuck you!"

"Dude, no, no, it's -- oh my god." Brendon clutches his tummy, pulling himself up until he's seated cross-legged, somehow managing to take up most of the bed. "One time I was at this party, and some guy and I were going at it -- "

"Do I really want to hear this?"

"Yes! 'Cause like, we were in the bathroom, and -- "

"Oh my god, was this that time you _abandoned_ me and that creepy chick with all the tattoos tried to take me home with her?"

"Um." Brendon scratches his chin. "Possibly. But this guy was _so hot_."

"Well, clearly, you're forgiven."

"No, but dude," Brendon plows forward, unfazed, "we were so drunk, and there were all these bottles of lotion on the counter and we didn't have any lube, so he like, reaches out for the nearest bottle and starts, y'know, and all of a sudden it like, _burns like fuck_ , and I'm like, what the fuck did you _use_ , and we look, and it's totally that shit you've got in your hand right now."

Ryan grins. "That's disgusting."

"Fuck disgusting, it hurt like hell! All those fucking little exfoliating beads or whatever. That shit's the devil."

"I'll be sure to keep it away from your ass," Ryan promises, plopping down on the bed and flipping off the light, leaving them in the dusky desk lamp glow. "I dunno if that's worse than the time I was at this girl's house in high school, and she's all like, 'get naked, I'm gonna go freshen up' or whatever, so she goes into the bathroom, and I take off my clothes and then her _brother_ comes home, who's like this... fucking huge-ass football player, and he's screaming at me to get the fuck out, and I end up in her backyard naked and like, all of my clothes are in her room."

"That's _awesome_!" Brendon laughs, letting his body fall back against the pillows, arms folded beneath his head. "Oh, but dude, nothing beats this one guy who yelled 'Tada!' every time he came."

"Are you kidding me?!" Ryan drops down beside him, laughing recklessly as he rolls onto his side until they're face to face.

"Crazy, crazy people," Brendon sighs, grinning.

"'Kay, I've got one that's just gross."

"Yay!"

Ryan smiles affectionately. "So, first time I ever went down on a girl -- "

"Oh, ew."

"Yeah, well, it was like, totally dark, so afterwards I go into the bathroom to clean up, and I turn on the light, and apparently she'd like, started her period 'cause my face was like, _covered_ in blood, I looked like fucking Hannibal Lecter -- "

"Dude, that's disgusting!"

"I _know_! I was like, screaming until I figured it out, I thought she was dying or something."

"Oh my god, you're such a tool."

"Whatever."

"See -- " Brendon props himself up on his elbow. "This is why I love guys. That's just traumatizing."

Ryan smirks. "So who was your first? Who... lured you into sodomy?"

Brendon chuckles. "How do you not know this? Oh my god, Tom."

"I -- _Jon's_ Tom? Dude, serious?"

"Fuck yeah. Jesus, that guy can fuck. Best kept secret on the label."

"That's." Ryan blinks, eyes trailing dazedly to the window. "Huh."

"What about you?"

"Never fucked a guy, dumbass."

"First _girl_ , twatface."

"Oh. Some blonde before Tara. Stephanie."

Brendon smiles fondly. "You and your god damned blondes."

Ryan shrugs, plucking at a thread on the comforter. "It's... probably some lame Oedipal complex, I guess. My mom was a blonde. Is. Whatever."

"Oh. I -- sorry, I didn't..."

"'S'okay." Ryan smiles. "I'm done with blondes now."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. I've decided they're bad luck. Or, whatever, maybe that's just girls in general."

Brendon's heart absolutely doesn't skip a beat. Nor does he indulge any little spark of hope that flares up in his chest. He's not seventeen again, he's not. He's mature now; he's wise. Or at least jaded.

Realism blows.

"I dunno, I still like some girls," Brendon muses. "Sarah was cool. It was nice, y'know, hanging out with someone who just saw... me. And _liked_ me. Who wasn't just trying to get in my pants... who didn't just look at me and see Panic's frontman; she was great. I think I just... in the end, it'll be guys for me. There's this really specific, intense connection in same-sex relationships that you just... can't get anywhere else."

He hadn't thought of it as some sort of speech, but the silence feels louder and heavier when he stops, and Ryan's looking at him like Brendon's been quoting Palahniuk and Wilde and Shakespeare all in the same sentence.

Ryan says, "Oh."

Realism blows, but it's safe. There are boundaries.

"Ever kissed a guy?"

...But boundaries are meant to be pushed.

Ryan blinks, trying to keep hold of Brendon's gaze but it's breaking at every turn, crumbling until it finally settles on the pillow, defeated.

"I mean -- " Brendon amends, feeling his face heat all over again, "besides, y'know." _Me, oh, hey, remember that?_

Ryan shrugs. "Yeah, a few times."

"Ever done more?"

"I... no."

Brendon swallows. "Ever... wanted to do more?"

And really, it's times like these he needs to take a moment to remind himself that his mouth actually does have an off-switch, and not every word that begs for release should get it.

Ryan stares at him, hard, for a long time -- not warning, not challenging, just... hard. Like he's not even really looking at Brendon, just staring to ground himself, trying to read whatever code Brendon's put out there to be cracked.

"Sometimes," he says at last. "Girls are... easier. All over, just, easier. No one'll look at me weird when I'm with a girl. No paparazzi will stalk me if I have dinner with a girl. As long as I date girls, the band will still be about the music. If I started sleeping with a guy, every interviewer in the world would try to connect every question, every lyric to where I put my dick. I don't want -- I couldn't take that. It's not fair, not for us, not for the band."

"So..." Brendon forces himself to pause, to let all the overactive gears in his brain settle, even a little. "So that's why you date girls, 'cause you don't want to be known as the gay songwriter?"

"I -- no. I like girls, girls are great. I'm... not afraid of being hurt by a girl, not really. It'd be losing a lover, but... not like losing a best friend, y'know? I could never be best friends with a girl. And they're not afraid of emotions, so they're not afraid of _my_ emotions. I can talk about things with them that most guys wouldn't want to hear about. Stuff, y'know, like... the kind of stuff we talk about."

"...So, you're straight?"

It's not even logical progression as questions go, and Brendon almost wants to kick himself for asking outright, because they don't do this, none of them, they -- they never. Even when they all knew, _knew_ Brendon was fucking guys, they never asked, never said a word until he sat down one morning with his bowl of Froot Loops and said, "So, I like dudes," and even then, the only word they offered was, "Duh."

But it's -- this is better. It'll be better, in the end, a straight answer, final -- no more dreaming, no false hopes to hold him back.

"I." Ryan swallows, his breath quickening as he shrugs, squirming awkwardly on his side of the bed. "I'm just. Just because girls are easier doesn't mean I. I don't..."

"So... you're bi?"

He finally lifts his eyes, his fingers abandoning the loose thread, and locks his gaze to Brendon's. "Um, like, serious? I mean, jeez, I figure you of all people wouldn't be so hung up on labels. Are they really that important?"

"I -- no, that's not what I -- I'm sorry, I didn't mean -- no."

"Then what? What are you trying to figure out?"

"I'm trying to figure out what was going through your head two years ago when you kissed me."

Brendon can almost hear it, the resounding _boom_ as the impact strikes -- a long, forked line splitting the ice under their feet, the surface fighting to stay intact under the relentless thump-thump-thump of his heartbeat.

Ryan looks away, forever and a day; silent and then some.

"I'm not sure, Bren."

In all honesty it's the best answer Brendon could've hoped for, beneath all his jaded realism.

"If you ever figure it out... let me know?"

Ryan looks up, their eyes catching, and somewhere below, his hand slips into Brendon's. The slide is so subtle, so unobtrusive that it feels like it's belonged there all along; that Brendon had been incomplete without it, without Ryan's fist pressed into the cave of his palm, their fingers overlapping just enough to touch, but not take.

"Yeah. Yeah, I will."

It's an end. It's the kind of end that suits them: incomplete, open, never resolved, with closure always a distant fantasy.

Brendon even thinks it's enough; thinks of how much better it is than all the alternatives, all the answers he could've received tonight, and when Ryan flips off the light and disappears into the bathroom to brush his teeth and wash his face, Brendon thinks of the ice, and how some things can hold up even with cracks, with holes, and still function.

But something snaps when Ryan crawls into bed, the pitch-black air begging for release, for rebellion, for secrets, and Brendon can't stop the words from tumbling out, hushed and rushed in one breath that may be his last:

"Qu'est-ce que je te fais sentir?"

For a moment Ryan's so still Brendon almost deflates, thinking he's already asleep, but finally he turns, shifting under the sheets until they're face to face, and the wide gloss of his eyes is all Brendon can see.

"What did you say?" Ryan whispers.

"I -- I dunno what it means. Spencer wouldn't tell me. He wouldn't tell me anything, he just said I should say it. I'm sorry, I don't -- "

Slowly, quietly, Ryan sighs, and Brendon follows.

"You're not gonna tell me, are you?" Brendon whispers.

They're near enough to each other that Brendon can feel each breath released, their texture and speed, the soft scent of mint that suddenly grows stronger, closer, until it's not just air, it's the press of Ryan's lips, paper-light and wispy against his own -- easy enough, in the dark, to pretend it was never there.

"Good-night, B."

He shifts, rustling the bedcovers until he's twisted around to his other side, until the liquid of his eyes is gone, and all Brendon can see is dark.

He's starting to think that even under the brightest sky, that's all he'll ever see.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The soundtrack's key for this one, though the tracks are linked in-text, too. Lyrics belong to Radiohead. For the record, I wrote my scene before [this](http://greenappleseas.livejournal.com/1939.html) was posted. I still hate parts of this (they're total disgusting _girls_ ; they'll get their testosterone back next chapter), but I hope it was worth the wait.
> 
>  **Dedication:** Everyone who brainstormed with me [here](http://lolab.livejournal.com/92344.html); everyone who's been supportive lately (you know who you are, writin' me fic and shit ♥); [](http://ivesia19.livejournal.com/profile)[**ivesia19**](http://ivesia19.livejournal.com/) for [this](http://ivesia19.livejournal.com/46814.html); and above all, [](http://minus-four.livejournal.com/profile)[](http://minus-four.livejournal.com/)**minus_four** for her honesty and for letting me bitch about this _forever_. (AND FOR RILONX.)

**6.**

 

_And the feeling is, that there's something wrong  
'Cause I can't find the words and I can't find the songs._

 

 

When Brendon wakes up, he's pretty sure he's dead.

It's not that his life is _bad_ ; in fact, in most ways, his life is pretty sweet. Just, not the kind of sweet that has him waking up half naked, draped across Ryan's body, with Ryan's fingers stroking hypnotically through his hair, massaging the base of his scalp and scratching lightly at all the right spots.

So, clearly, y'know. Death. Or possibly dreaming, but he ruled that out when he realized he could feel the warmth of Ryan's skin, his chest rising and falling; when he realized he could smell him. Not any distinct smell, just. Ryan.

"Mm, fi' more minutes," he mumbles, nuzzling his face deeper into the crook of Ryan's neck.

Beneath him, Ryan's body shakes gently under silent laughter, voice laughing when he says, "Okay."

The voice sounds far off, but it can't be, because Brendon can feel the breath of the syllables hitting his cheekbone, and he's pretty sure there's no breathing in death. Rosencrantz would know. Or Guildenstern. He can't remember now.

But without death or dreaming, the options are intensely narrowed.

Slowly so as not to squash Ryan, Brendon pushes himself up on his elbows to peer down at Ryan's face, features softened, his eyes squinty in the sun but shining in the narrow space where the golden-brown peeps out; and his smile.

His _smile_.

Brendon swallows. "Where's my shirt?"

"I dunno, you wriggled out of it at some point."

"Why -- " He looks down at the state of them, tangled and sleep-heavy together, and doesn't let himself _think_. "Why didn't you shove me off?"

Ryan's smile catches a bit on the words, and he shrugs. "You looked so peaceful."

Brendon figures he got away with this much; another ten seconds of staring can't do any harm. Despite his efforts, it's not an answer he finds in Ryan's face, but just another set of questions. Ryan may be fully clothed but his face is naked, more exposed than Brendon's seen in a long time.

Like... two years long.

"Sorry," Brendon says, not really knowing what for, but some part of him feels guilty and it feels like the word that needs to be in the air. He pulls back, peeling away the contact between their bodies, and shivers as the cool, abandoned side of the sheets flutters down around his skin.

"'S'okay," Ryan says. "Yoga?"

Brendon considers the offer, picturing various contortions before his stomach squirms in rumbling protest. He turns his head, smiling hopefully as he remembers the cook book they'd unearthed the day before in a spontaneous burst of housecleaning. "Waffles first?"

" _You're_ a waffle."

Ryan slides out of bed, drawing his arms high as he shuffles across the room, the muscles and bones in his back twisting beneath his paper-thin wifebeater as he grabs one wrist with the opposite hand, using the leverage to stretch out his shoulderblades. Brendon's eyes chase the movement frame by frame before he's even awake enough to stop himself.

Somewhere beneath the sheets, his dick offers a warm, enthusiastic greeting to the new day.

"You coming?" Ryan asks through a yawn.

The voice in Brendon's head that sounds like Pete cackles mercilessly.

"In a minute."

Ryan raises an eyebrow before he leaves the room, his hair sticking up in spikes across his head, his skin golden in the light, veins prominent on the undersides of his tiny forearms as the blood rushes through his body to wake him up. And it's that simple image, his eyes, his skin, his stupid sleep-hair, that sends Brendon over the edge two and a half minutes later, knuckles white as he grips the edge of the bathroom counter, fingers straining from the pressure, white streaks spilling over his hand as the clamor of pots and pans greets him from downstairs.

In his still sleepy mind, it sort of sounds like ice cracking.

 

+++

 

"What's a tisp?"

"Huh?" Brendon digs the spatula out from where it's shoved in the back of the drawer, and slaps Ryan's backside with it. "What's a what?"

"A _tisp_ ," Ryan says, exasperated, thrusting an open page of the cookbook in Brendon's face.

Brendon squints at where his fingertip is pointing, the letters _Tsp_. "A -- Ryan, it's -- oh my holy god, it's a fucking _teaspoon_ , you moron."

He's cackling ruthlessly enough to earn the smack on his arm, but it's worth it. "I'm sorry, I'm not _your mother_. Why the hell are we making waffles from scratch anyway?"

"Because we can. Mix this."

He shoves a bowl into Ryan's arms and starts digging around in the fridge. He's just wrapped his fingers around the can of Cool Whip when a loud, buzzing motor erupts behind him, accompanied by a yelp and a protracted whine of failure.

Where there was once a Ryan, there is now a cloud of white powder.

Brendon claps a hand over his mouth, his whole body spazzing in silent shakes.

"Why did it _do that_?!" Ryan whines.

"Because you -- " Oh fuck, there it is, he's laughing. "You turned on the electric fucking mixer before you added the wet ingredients, you dickfuck!"

"I don't deserve this abuse!"

"Oh my god," Brendon chokes, unrolling a slew of paper towels from the dispenser and holding them under the faucet, before squeezing them out and dabbing at Ryan's flour-coated face while Ryan pretends to flinch away, only to secretly angle his face for better access. "You look like Casper."

"Shut up! Kids used to tell me I looked like Casper 'cause I'm pale and I have a round face!"

"That's -- " Oh god, laughing _harder_. "That's -- I'm sorry, honey, that's so mean."

"Don't fucking 'honey' me, you asshole! And you're supposed to deny it!"

"Ryan -- " He backs off, tossing the soaked paper towels on the counter and clutching his middle. "I'm sorry, you're -- you're all -- _flour_ \-- "

Ryan gasps indignantly, reaching out for the first thing he can close his hand around, which happens to be the can of Cool Whip quickly collecting condensation. He whips off the cap, aims the spout at Brendon's head, and squeezes the tip. Brendon barely has time to register the _whoosh_ before a cold, frilly line of whipped cream is circling his head.

Brendon's mouth drops open as he feels a trickle of the white fluff dribbling down his face, collecting in the corner of his mouth. "Did you actually just do that?"

GhostRyan splutters a bit, his toothy smile matching his blanched face. "Yeah."

"Congratulations. Come on, take your shirt off, I'll get you a new one."

And, okay. Maybe Ryan can quote authors Brendon's never heard of, and squeeze four-syllable words into his lyrics and recite Shakespeare from memory, but in matters of practicality, he possesses a truly beautiful lack of ability that Brendon feels is his human duty to exploit.

He sets the can of whipped cream down on the counter, both hands curling around the hem of his shirt as he peels it over his head, and Brendon waits for that one, tiny moment where the shirt gets caught on Ryan's head before he wrestles it off, until Brendon snatches the whipped cream and squirts a giant glob all over Ryan's chest.

"Shit, you _fucker_!"

Ryan leaps back, his grin wide but devious, devious with _intent_ , and Brendon knows that look. It's the look he gets before dares, before he reveals a winning hand of poker. It's the look of _evil incarnate_ , and all Brendon has to defend his life, his virtue, his _manhood_ , is a can of Cool Whip.

Brendon firms his grip on the can. "Last one in the lake makes breakfast. Alone."

"I'm not fucking swimming, it's eight in the morning, the water's fucking cold!"

"Hmm." Brendon nods thoughtfully. "Worried about shrinkage, huh?"

Ryan's eyes narrow behind his white exterior, mouth dropping open comically, dark wet red against the ghostly pale of his face. There's no warning, just a blur of movement and he's bolting for the glass doors to the deck and Brendon's on his heels, giggling and trying to shove him aside, and Ryan's fingers are just floury enough to slip on all his best attempts. Brendon manages to twist the knob and wrench the doors open, sprinting out across the deck, down the stairs, across the dirt and out over the dock. Ryan's faster by nature, but the head start is killer, and the chill of water slicing over his skin as he breaks the surface is nothing next to victory's sweet, sweet taste.

He bobs lazily to the surface, shaking the water from his hair, but his eyes are barely open before he gets another blur of Ryan and he's being pushed back under, Ryan's wiry fingers like vices around his shoulders. It's instinct to fight back and fight dirty, squirm wildly until he breaks free, but the cold and the chaos must be fucking with his head because he launches into a new technique, which involves gracelessly clinging tight to Ryan till they're both underwater, till the only way out is together.

They break the surface, hair drenched and lungs heaving, breathing heavily into each other's faces as they jerk their heads to flick hair from their eyes. It's not until the sun's beating down on them, the fresh morning air breathing goosebumps into their exposed skin -- it's not until their eyes lock, Ryan's wet lashes darkened against his cheek, little beads of lake water clinging tenuously -- that Brendon realizes what the rest of their bodies are up to.

He's -- they're not just touching, not just holding onto each other, but _holding_ each other: Ryan's wrapped loosely around Brendon's waist, both pairs of arms snaked around each other's backs, pulling to keep them both level, and Brendon wants to know how Ryan can just -- just be there, smiling and panting like this isn't what it is, and Brendon's so fucking tired of being the only one who recognizes this for what it is. And it _is_ , independent of Ryan's awareness or relentless lack thereof, and it's not fair, not fair that Ryan won't acknowledge it, just keeps treating it like it's still a game, a tease, a joke, when maybe it never was.

Ryan swallows, trying to find his breath, and his eyes drop from Brendon's, down an inch, two.

"Guess I owe you breakfast."

Brendon's throat clenches and he holds his oxygen, scared to let it out too fast, lest any unwanted words make a break for it.

"Guess so."

Ryan's hand slips on his back, the water too slick for gripping, and plunges six inches lower, landing just above the curve of Brendon's ass. They're close enough that Brendon can feel when Ryan's breath hitches, the only warning he offers before slowly, smoothly pressing his hips forward, just an inch, just an inch _enough_. Brendon's throat opens, defying permission, and a gasp slides out, sharp and betraying on his tongue.

Ryan blinks, an effected smirk trying to find purchase on his lips. "Shrinkage my _ass_."

And it's over -- the whisper clings to the air but Ryan's gone, detangling their bodies and hoisting himself back onto the dock, leaving Brendon alone and freezing and motherfucking _hard_.

Ryan smiles as he looks over his shoulder. "Hope you like tofu sausage."

He's halfway back to the cabin before Brendon can whip up a comeback, but his cry of, "You know I love your sausage!" isn't entirely lost. Ryan doesn't turn around but laughs in the distance, low and dignified, just loud enough for Brendon to hear.

Alone and wet (not to mention blue-balled to hell and back), the walk back to the deck feels longer. Soggier, too. Then there's the whole aspect of brain-numbing confusion, never new but always strong, and the fading tingle under Brendon's skin where Ryan had pressed against him, not enough to be _something_ but just enough to be everything.

Still, victory feels like flying, and he's glad to walk through the door, letting his feet drip onto the mat before heading into the living room, heart set on a luxurious hour of Saturday morning cartoons.

"-- Spence, you can't just throw around words like 'in love' and expect me to -- "

And Brendon hears it in his head, the desperate voice begging _To what, to what, to what_ , even before Ryan looks up from where he's dripping lake water onto the living room floor from his pajama shorts, eyes catching Brendon's like headlights, even though it's Ryan who looks like the deer.

Suddenly he's whiter than white, but there's no flour left on his face.

Brendon can hear a tiny voice on the other line, still talking and pausing, but Ryan's silent, staring at Brendon like he can't hear, like Brendon is all his senses can absorb.

Finally he blinks, whispers, "Yeah," into the phone, and snaps it shut.

Brendon stares. Still. He doesn't have to stop, he's _allowed_.

"Who was that?" he asks, jumping to find his speech an octave higher and his heartbeat louder than the words, _beatbeatbeat **thump**_.

"Spence," Ryan answers, swallowing hard against the broken tone of his voice. "He's -- was just. Calling to check in."

"Oh." _Beatbeat **thumpthump**_. "How's he's doing?"

"Good. They're going to a Cubs game later with Bill and Sisky."

"Oh, cool."

"Yeah."

Their eyes are having a separate conversation behind the words -- or trying to prevent one, at least, and Brendon feels his speech shifting to autopilot, the false ease of the words springing from some deep stockpile of smalltalk and empty chatter while the forefront of his brain is screaming obscenities, burying questions but begging for answers.

"Um. Sorry, I'll." Ryan turns, placing his phone gently on the end table. "Breakfast."

"I'm. Not really hungry right now."

Ryan doesn't look up but he _looks_ , hard and pointed at the wall. "Oh."

 _Thumpthumpthump **crack**_.

"So." Ryan nods at their mats rolled up against the armchair, side by side. "Yoga?"

Brendon stares hard, begging Ryan to open for him, but Ryan's locked shut, deadbolted and chained.

Brendon nods, eyes on the floor. "Yeah."

Yoga's funny; it can be the last thing in the world you want to do, but surrender yourself to the postures for five minutes and suddenly you can't remember why you don't do this all day long, every day. Still, on the more pessimistic days, even the focus and awareness can feel like just another route of escape, and Brendon can taste it now, the phone call still heavy and loud in the air between them, throwing into sharp relief whatever it is between them that's not allowed to exist.

Today the time passes like wind, ignored until you're caught in it, and Brendon's mind awakens suddenly to find himself bent over the floor, head bowed low and Ryan pressed up behind him, both still shirtless from the lake, before he even realizes they've started partner work.

It's a new pose, more advanced and more physically intimate; they've only tried it once before and Brendon had crashed to the ground, not because Ryan didn't support him, but because Brendon didn't trust him to, and at the last minute freaked and wriggled out of the posture, his balance collapsing.

He can feel his muscles tremble under the strain of holding the stretch, but Ryan's arms just tighten around him, promising, and just when he feels ready to break, there are lips at his ear, puffing hot, exerted breath against his skin.

"I've got you. Don't worry about falling, I'll catch you."

Brendon closes his eyes and thinks, _So catch me_.

 

+++

 

He spends the morning in his room.

Ryan doesn't bother him, but Spencer sends him a text message -- a single heart; triangle bracket and the number three. For some reason, it makes him feel worse.

It doesn't feel like his room anymore. It doesn't smell like him or his stuff, or what he imagines his stuff must smell like -- no one can really tell, when it's their own -- but it just smells like cabin now. A little old, a little stuffy, but he opens a window and holes himself up in a corner with his Taylor acoustic and a resealable bag of mini Oreos, which he never reseals, and plays through _Mellon Collie and the Infinite Sadness_ twice until his fingers beg him to stop.

It feels louder once he's stopped; the air and the room. When Brendon plays he feels shut inside his head, all his senses angled inward, the world around him nonexistent; so when he stops, everything feels deafening, blinding. His senses turn outward again, slowly, adjusting to the silence, and past the open window he can hear late afternoon birds, the occasional splash as one of the larger species dips into the lake for a fish.

Three rooms down, a minute later, he hears shuffling noises, and the faint swish of paper, a page turning.

When he reaches Ryan's room, the door's open and Ryan's sprawled on his stomach across a blanket out on the balcony, bug-eyed sunglasses pointlessly low on his nose as he peers over the top of the frames into his book.

Brendon squeezes himself and his guitar through the glass sliding door and curls up cross-legged across from him. The space feels small with the guitar between them, but somehow it'd felt more natural to carry it along than leave it behind.

Ryan looks up and smiles, small but friendly.

"Want me to leave you alone?" Brendon asks.

Ryan shakes his head, turns back to his text, flipping a page. "I fuckin' miss the Pumpkins, man."

"Me too."

"You sounded really good."

Brendon shrugs. He feels awkward accepting compliments when he knows they're true; he kind of kicked ass, for not having touched the songs in two years.

"What're you reading?"

Ryan holds up the book, front and back covers splayed open, and Brendon leans in to read, _E.E. Cummings: Complete Poems 1904-1962_.

He snorts. "You are so, so gay."

"Shut up, this shit's beautiful. I'm looking for inspiration."

Brendon leans back against the railing, chasing some of the shade trickling down from the tree overhead, and props his guitar against the metal bars. "So let's hear some."

Ryan looks at him, sharp and quick, an assessment of intent, but Brendon keeps his face even, finding he's actually curious. Ryan's taste always seems dubious until Brendon's forced to actually sample it, and he tends to be pleasantly surprised, time and again.

Ryan rifles through the book with purpose, but he stares long and hard at the page once he's got it, like he's just. Not _sure_. He still doesn't seem sure when his lips part, but the words are spilling and Brendon's ears perk in anticipation.

"Here is the deepest secret nobody knows," Ryan reads softly. "Here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud and the sky of the sky of a tree called life; which grows higher than the soul can hope or mind can hide, and this is the wonder that's keeping the stars apart. I carry your heart... I carry it in my heart."

His eyes catch Brendon's on the last words, and it hits Brendon that there was no reason for Ryan to stare at the page at all; this was memorized.

"See?" Ryan prods, glancing away. "It's sexy."

Brendon shrugs, staring out past the thick of trees to the lake, where the wind is whipping over the surface. "You want sexy?" He hoists his guitar into his lap, tuning absently before strumming a few test chords. "You'll probably think you don't know it. He doesn't usually play it [acoustic](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Q_L-0Ryhmic). But when he does, it's one of the sexiest things you'll ever hear."

He hasn't played it in -- Jesus, a year, two, four? It doesn't come back easily, it's not an easy song, not like this, and he remembers Tom's patience, teaching him, both of them still half naked and half drunk on Academy's abandoned tour bus, their respective bands having sanely opted for hotel rooms while the two of them took advantage of the privacy and spent the night defiling the back lounge. Tom told him he learned it when he was seventeen, just to seduce some chick named Layla, and if Brendon ever wanted to seduce someone, here was his key. Brendon had been scarcely a non-virgin to either sex, and seduction techniques -- seduction techniques via _music_ \-- were not something he could justify resisting.

It doesn't sound as good as it did then, but it's good enough, and Brendon tries to just go with it, let his voice and the lyrics make up for missed notes. He doesn't take his eyes from the strings much, but the few moments he does, it's not his imagination that Ryan swallows harder than humanly necessary when Brendon croons _You've got me on my knees_ , softer and smokier than he tends to sing anything else ever.

"See?" Brendon teases when the last note fades. "It's sexy."

Ryan bites his lip, staring at the inactive strings. "I always forget how well you can play."

Brendon feels his cheeks go hot. "Thanks. I'm not -- I mean, Ian and I spent like the whole summer jamming last year, so I picked up a lot from him. That kid's fuckin' sick, he makes us all look like wannabes."

"Seriously. Can you do anything classical?"

"Well, it's... not really a classical guitar," Brendon chuckles, always amused but indulgent when Ryan gets into one of his oddly starry-eyed moods, fangirling his own frontman until Brendon churns out request after request just for the pleased, _this-dude-is- **mine**_ smile on Ryan's face. It's rare anymore, but Brendon remembers. "But. Um. I can try, what do you want?"

Ryan shrugs. "I like the romantic stuff. That thing you played on the cello."

"'That thing,' huh?" Brendon smiles. "Okay. Um."

His fingers think first -- and that's typical, other parts of his body always ahead of him. His mouth, his dick; and always, his hands, working through things he doesn't even realize he's playing until they're out in the air. He's gone through entire performances not even aware of which song till halfway through. Music's so much a part of him it he seems just functions _inside_ it rather than alongside it, and it feels like that now: the sweet, too familiar [notes](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=I4Sh9cKEDH0&feature=related) playing out between them, uniting them in a way only music can. This one's sharper in his memory that he doesn't have to look down, and he doesn't know why it's Ryan he fixates on instead, but Ryan looks back, eyes on Brendon's, not once dropping down to the instrument -- and it's not like him. Ryan likes to watch people play, likes to see the production of the music as it's happening, but now... now he's looking at him as if _Brendon's_ the music.

It's quiet after, too quiet for too long, and Brendon squeezes his tired fingers into fists, staring to wonder why he ever left his room.

Ryan swallows and looks away, down over the bed of pine needles on the ground below. "How do you know how to play that?"

"'Cause I had to. I played it at my cousin's wedding when I was seventeen."

"Oh." Ryan's fingers toy with a corner of the blanket, tugging on the frayed edging. "It always makes me want to get married."

"Me too."

"Not like I'm ever going to, but."

Brendon looks at his hands, unclenches his fists and stares at the lines in his palms, trying to extract random meaning, desperate. "Don't say that. You totally will someday." He doesn't really mean it, can't picture Ryan married ever, but it feels like the right thing to say.

Ryan looks up, his eyes far off but focused, somehow, as they wait for Brendon to meet them. "If I ever do, will you play that? At the wedding?"

Brendon feels something crack, but it feels more like his heart than the ice -- not that there's much difference at the moment. He nods slowly, dropping his eyes to the floor.

"For you, yeah."

 

+++

 

_And if I could be who you wanted_  
If I could be who you wanted  
All the time, all the time. 

 

 

It's Ryan's turn to disappear after lunch: avocado sandwiches and two joints by the lake; a heated debate over Tide versus Gain, and a stoned-lazy splash fight that dissolved into a nap, wet strands of hair drying stickily on their faces as the sun-heated wood of the dock warmed their skin, their bones; softened their minds. They fell asleep as an afterthought, eyes shut tight against the sun and wrists brushing, the contact light but warmer than the rays, than fire.

Ryan's gone when Brendon wakes up.

He can see him if he squints, through the massive picture windows of the music room. There's glare from the sun, and the room inside is darker, but he can make out the figure outlined at the piano, swaying slightly as he moves over the keyboard.

The cabin feels weirdly dark when Brendon stumbles back inside, still fuzzy and overwarm from too much sun, too much weed, too much sleep. It's cold inside, his shirt still splotchy-wet, and he peels it off, fastening up a button-down before he lengthens himself over the sofa and closes his eyes over the music from the adjoining room. Ryan's shut the door, and it's muffled, but Brendon can hear every note. The trademark is too distinctly _Ryan_ for it to even register on his radar until five, ten songs in, when he realizes Ryan's only half after solitude, and half chasing attention. He's set himself up alone, closed off and quiet, but every song he's playing is one he and Brendon have played together, only ever together, since day one.

Brendon's in debate over whether it's an invitation, _where are you I need you_ , or a warning, _see, I don't_ , when a familiar Chopin melody sinks through the walls, putting all doubts to rest.

Ryan must hear him come in, because he slides to the right edge of the bench even as he's playing, not sacrificing a note. Brendon settles in beside him, picking up the second piano arrangement just like before until it swells, fills their bodies and the space, and finally dies out like a flame: quick, understated, but not forgotten for the heat still in the air.

"You got better," Brendon remarks softly.

Ryan nods, eyes on the keys. His hands are in his lap, too withdrawn and too close to his body to make it okay when Brendon reaches out to touch, gently fingering the beads that bear the letters of his name, wrapped around Ryan's wrist. Ryan doesn't move an inch.

"Why do you still wear this?"

"You gave it to me."

Brendon smiles down at the beads, rolling them around on the thin, worn string. "I gave you a pink tiara once, too. You punched me."

A corner of Ryan's mouth twitches, but he reins it in. "I don't know. I like the way it feels. Feels like you're always with me."

Brendon's fingers are trembling, but he lets them stretch out, past the beaded confines of the bracelet and over Ryan's skin, circling loosely around his wrist, not gripping, just holding, and waits for Ryan to fight it, pull away.

When he doesn't, Brendon whispers, "I am."

Ryan twists his arm like he's going to pull back, but he only upturns it, the soft, sensitive flesh of his inner forearm bared, tattoo sprawling out beneath the spread of bracelets. His fingers trip over Brendon's, fitting between them and squeezing.

"I know."

 

+++

 

"It's called willing suspension of disbelief, Ross."

"I'm sorry, but I'm not willing to suspend my disbelief of a fucking _smoke monster_."

Brendon blinks, his artichoke leaf dangling in mid-air between his fingers, melted butter dripping from the tip. "Don't talk about Smokey like that."

Ryan grins wide, peeling off a leaf and dipping it into the bowl of warm garlic butter nestled into the ground between them. "You're a geek."

"Pot, kettle."

"You probably write _Lost_ fan fiction under some alias like, 'Jackloverxxx.'"

"You probably write Fall Out Boy fan fiction and get Pete to edit it for you."

Ryan huffs. "I don't need Pete. I actually know the difference between a semicolon and a colon cleanse, unlike some of us."

Brendon grins. "I could make so many disgusting jokes right now."

Ryan ducks his head, smile stretching to his eyes as he dips another leaf, dunking it till it's drenched beyond recognition, just a buttery suggestion of what was once part of an artichoke. Brendon looks idly, then _watches_ as he brings it to his lips, tongue darting out to catch a drop close to falling. The slick leaf disappears between Ryan's lips, teeth scraping along the length to gather the meat as he slides it back out with a slurping sound, wet and obscene.

Brendon tries to swallow his arousal and chokes on his tongue.

Ryan looks up. "Y'okay?"

"Um, you." Brendon's hand flaps aimlessly for a second, drops back down. "You've got. Uh."

"What?"

The hand reaches out against inner protests, index finger brushing the corner of Ryan's mouth to collect the bead of liquid butter that had clung. They both stare for a moment at Brendon's finger, and Brendon can almost hear his own thoughts in the air, _Don't, don't, don't_.

He doesn't. He wipes it on his jeans and grabs hold of his own artichoke, ripping off a clump of petals.

By dinnertime, the Nothing had blown over -- or at least blown aside. Brendon thanks god, _The Neverending Story_ , and the bottle of merlot they'd opened for inspiration -- a reminder of better things to come, should they fail -- once they decided to cook dinner. Not just dinner: motherfucking _artichokes_.

It's not that anything's... happened. The ice is still there under their feet, cracked and fragile, but it's like they implicitly decided _fuck it_ , laced up their skates, and went gliding across, arms spread wide, wind in their hair. Not unafraid, but pretending.

Sometimes pretending's enough.

It was a good project, cooking, because it required as much intricate focus as music. It was a potentially unfortunate series of events, meandering down the aisles of the grocery store until Ryan had snatched up two of the green pineconey things and fixed a look on Brendon that left little room for debate. But there was a cook book, and measuring instruments, and a moderate degree of sobriety (hey, together they made one fully sober person), to wind up with full culinary success and a side of garlic butter to boot.

It seemed only natural to celebrate by the water's edge, shoes kicked off and mosquitos held at bay by half a dozen of Ryan's anti-bug candles dragged back from California. They smell a little weird but the sunset more than makes it up to their senses, sprawling out in a blinding splash of oranges and purples. Coupled with the striking spread of the lake and Ryan only inches away, face soft in the light, hair draping over dusk-sharpened features in the shadows, it feels like more than Brendon's eyes deserve.

"Thanks for cooking with me," Ryan says, digging through the flowery fluff with his fork to get at the heart of the vegetable.

Brendon smirks, taking a swig of merlot. "Thanks for not burning down the kitchen."

Ryan slaps his knee.

They watch the sunset for a long time, no words. It's so present, so defining of the moment, that it feels superfluous to remark on it. The visuals are felt more than seen, all around them, in the glow on their skin and the sparkling mosaic of colors that lingers in negative behind Brendon's eyes when he squeezes them closed, briefly, trying to shut out the voice in his head screaming _Now, now_ \-- now, under the fucking sunset at the edge of a fucking lake in the most perfect place on earth, the sides of their pinkie fingers touching as they lean back on their arms, legs crossed in front of them, matching, and Ryan trying to pretend he isn't stealing glances at Brendon's profile every ten seconds, and Jon trying to pretend it was alcohol that had him texting "Kiss the Girl" lyrics to Brendon's Sidekick all evening.

"Ryan?"

Ryan looks up quick like he was waiting, and when Brendon looks at him, he feels frozen, like he's already gone through the ice.

He swallows it all, the lump in his throat, the fucking colony of butterflies in his stomach (do butterflies live in colonies? Jesus Christ), the junior-high pounding of his heart, and never has "do or die" felt more literal.

"Can I ask you one question, but you have to answer, and you have to be honest?"

"Sounds like a lot of conditions," Ryan smiles, his voice a half step up from standard monotone -- nothing anyone else would notice, but for Brendon it's enough to read as crippling fear, no more, no less. Ryan takes a breath. "Yeah, shoot."

"What are you thinking right now?"

Ryan laughs, a little indulgence, a little fear, and looks down at the bottle Brendon's released, fingers twitching under the temptation. "I'm thinking... that I wish you hadn't asked me that."

Brendon bumps his knee. "Before that, fucker."

Ryan raises an eyebrow. "That's a second question."

The stare-down lasts longer than it should, but Brendon doesn't back down and it ups his bravado just enough to gather the words on his tongue:

"Why did you bring me here?"

Ryan smiles again, small and far off, a secret with himself. He isn't telling.

"That's three questions."

Brendon pulls in a breath, holds it there until he's sure he won't scream. "Gimme your hand."

Ryan looks confused but he holds out a hand, palm up, open and trusting -- more than Brendon asked. Brendon spreads the hand out across his thigh, pressing Ryan's fingers open, and looks up, favoring him with a nervewracked smile.

"What... are you gonna _read my palm_?"

Brendon grins. "Yeah. Try and figure the answer out myself. See this line here?" He drags one blunt nail gently along the line that splits Ryan's palm in two, like the threading on a baseball. "Means you're madly in love with me and you think I'm the hottest piece of ass you've ever seen."

"Funny, some fortune teller once told me the same thing."

"Duh. 'S fate."

"You don't believe in fate."

 _I believe in you_ rushes to Brendon's tongue and dies pressed against his lips, scarcely restrained. Their eyes meet again, and Ryan doesn't retract his hand, not even when there's no excuse left for where it is.

"Okay, so I can't read your palm."

"Wow, really?"

"But, I can read your fingers."

Ryan raises an eyebrow and curls his fingers under Brendon's touch until only his middle finger is sticking straight out. "Read this."

"Jackass." Brendon smirks. "Nah, it's real. It's called chiromancy. It's like... some psychology thing."

"Mm. Sounds official."

Brendon presses on his fingers, just hard enough to still them, to squeeze out the tension until Ryan's hand goes lax in his. "See if I can remember... see, the longer your fingers, the more... in your mind you are."

"Meaning...?"

"Meaning, you don't care about mundane things... like paying utility bills."

"Fuck you."

"Later. Oh, see, how your pinkie starts way below the other fingers... it's called a sunken pinkie. Way more common in women -- "

" _Thanks_."

"No, but like. It suggests maybe you had an absent male figure in your childhood. Which, y'know. You did. But it's a little curved, which means... uh."

"What?"

A blush creeps up behind Brendon's smile, and he ducks his head. "It means you're, uh, highly sexual. And, uh -- oh, but your pinkie's really long, which means you've got a thing for language... a natural eloquence, good vocab, tendency to slip fifteen-syllable words into songs..."

"Ass."

"You are what you eat," Brendon replies, automatic. "Now, your ring finger's super long. That's all about what you present to the world. Longer it is, supposedly the more attractive you are."

An eyebrow arches. "Supposedly?"

Brendon smirks. "Okay, so everyone wants to bone you, big news. But what's important is the length compared to your index finger. See, the index finger's a lot shorter... implies, like, split personas. Depression. Like... maybe you hide behind a mask a lot."

But there's no mask when Brendon looks up now, just naked trust, too complete, too easily gained.

"What else?" Ryan asks softly.

Brendon stares down at the spread of fingers at his disposal, long and delicate but undeniably _strong_. They're slender, but there's nothing feminine about them; they're too powerful. Brendon loves that, the juxtaposition of power and fragility, how they manage to be both at once.

"Uh." Brendon swallows, finding his mouth dry as he studies them, one finger standing out in particular. "I don't remember any more."

"Liar."

Brendon sighs. "Just. See, your middle finger. It's actually pretty short compared to the others. Almost the same length as your ring finger."

"So?"

"...So, it, uh... people who have it tend to get... caught up in... y'know."

"...In _what_?"

Brendon lifts his eyes just a little, testing, keeping his head low. "Um. Alternative lifestyles?"

Ryan rolls his eyes.

"But..." Brendon backtracks quickly, too content with the evening to let it spoil this quickly. "This stuff is just generic. Hypothetical. I mean, all it really shows is..."

"All it really shows is you know me better than I know myself." Ryan looks down at their hands, twines his fingers around Brendon's until they're locked, tangled like limbs. "I already knew that."

Ryan looks up without warning and their eyes lock, but it feels like they're nose to nose for how split open Brendon feels, how exposed, how fucking _seen_ , and suddenly he can't remember to breathe, can't remember how he was supposed to do this, how anyone does this ever and, god, he can't _do_ this.

"Ryan..."

"Why do you think I brought you here?"

There's a thousand non-answers when he looks into Ryan's eyes, just a sharp darkness that's trying to reach behind Brendon's eyes, pull out his thoughts, and it's not fair, not fair that Ryan can do it if Brendon can't.

He shrugs, helpless, smiling bitterly down at the empty bowls between them, the soft mix of grass and sand beneath. "To make me go nuts trying to figure out?"

Ryan doesn't answer until Brendon collects the courage to looks at him again, and -- okay, so it's _this_. Eyes first, lips second: what they're looking for isn't in the words.

And that's enough to stop his breath all over again, because it's _Ryan_. Without words, he's. Brendon doesn't even know. Laid open, bare, powerless, just a boy with eyes too big to hide his secrets.

Ryan whispers, "You're already nuts."

Brendon can feel the moment his body transcends the fear -- like an adrenaline rush after days without sleep, past exhaustion and into overdrive just to function. But it works, spurs him on, and he can look into those eyes and feel his body moving closer and he's not afraid, not enough.

"Then what?"

Ryan doesn't answer, just smiles as his eyes skip down to Brendon's mouth, pupils blown and glassy, everything too sharp but too blurry, too much to focus on and not enough focus to go around. And Brendon panics, because now he doesn't have words and he doesn't have Ryan's eyes, he has nothing, and it takes Ryan's breath against his lips, Ryan's hand sliding across the ground to cover his, to recognize there's a third step on this fucked-up ladder of miscommunication -- past words, past their eyes, leaving only --

Action.

His hand slips at the realization, and he feels Ryan's tighten over it, like confirmation, like _yes_ , and then his words are back, useless but tumbling and he can't -- he can't not --

"Can I kiss you?"

Ryan swallows. "That's a fourth question."

The ice breaks; the words barely makes it past Ryan's lips before Brendon swallows them down, sealing their mouths together and they're kissing.

They're kissing, like people do every day all over the world, and after two years it should feel new, like a first, but instead it just feels like sliding into home, like the end of a journey that didn't have a destination until now.

And it shouldn't be this easy to fall, for their mouths to know how this is supposed to go, what to give, what to take, but maybe after six years, you learn more than you think. Ryan lets him lead at first but pushes back in the end, fights him for it, their tongues advancing from teasing nudges to insistent thrusts, licking slow and deep into each other's mouths until they find a rhythm. It changes, slows and quickens and falters as Brendon's mind starts to go fuzzy, his body trembling under the blow-out of sensations, and just when he thinks it's too much, Ryan's reaching up to tug him closer until they're practically in each other's laps. His fingers rest steady at Brendon's hips, Brendon's hands cupping the sharp lines of Ryan's jaw, and Brendon wonders why he'd ever worried about breathing, because this is _better_.

Ryan tastes just as he should, like artichokes and butter and merlot, and he feels the same as Brendon had all but forgotten he'd remembered. It's more, now, with his fingers curling tight into Brendon's hipbones, feeling the way he'd always imagined, and Brendon startles, suddenly, at the wild thud-thud-thud of Ryan's heart beneath his palm before he'd even noticed his hand had moved, slid down over Ryan's chest to press through his t-shirt. He pulls back just to breathe into Ryan's mouth, nip at his moistened lips, catch his breath, but Ryan doesn't let him go far, one hand cupping the back of Brendon's neck, strong, until Brendon starts whispering, "Ryan, _Ryan_ ," and he's too far. There's too much space between them, and Brendon has to kiss him again, hard.

Ryan pushes back and it's fast now, spiral fast, both of them clinging to each other just to stay afloat. Ryan's the first to start sinking, dropping a tiny whimper into Brendon's mouth and Brendon takes it, would take anything Ryan gives him, only Ryan is --

Ryan --

There's cool air rushing towards his skin, his overheated mouth, and Ryan's two feet away, panting and staring at Brendon like he's not sure where he just came from.

"Hey -- " Brendon whispers, reaching out for him (on instinct, already it's _instinct_ to touch him), but Ryan splays a hand over Brendon's chest, eyes rabid with nothing Brendon can read.

"Fuck," Ryan chokes.

"Hey, what -- it's okay, what's -- "

"I can't."

"What? Dude -- "

"I -- fuck, Brendon, I -- fuck, I'm sorry, I'm sorry."

"No -- no, it's -- hey, it's okay, you're fine, we're -- "

"I thought -- " Ryan's choking up for real now, and Brendon can't breathe but now he's got nothing to make up for oxygen. "I thought we could, but -- it's -- fuck, I'm so -- we can't, we just -- I'm sorry. _Fuck_ , I'm sorry, I'm _sorry_."

Brendon tries to reach out, tries to stop him, to stop time, but his limbs aren't listening to his brain and his brain isn't working to begin with.

"Ryan -- just -- wait, fucking -- talk to me, please."

"I'm sorry. Please, just -- just don't." He squeezes Brendon's hand, once, fast, and he's scrambling to his feet. "We can't."

The world outside their bubble shoots fast back into focus, the first chill of night air, the oblivious chorus of crickets, the crunch of Ryan's shoes on the bed of pine needles as he runs back into the house, and the scent of merlot and melted butter still heavy in the air, validating the whole moment, like it's that simple.

Brendon stares helplessly as he disappears through the glass doors, as the light from inside frames the outline of his body until the doors click shut behind him, fitting too easily together.

This was never, ever where the moments were meant to lead.


	9. Chapter 9

_[La Campanella](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hEnfZjqMSy0)_ doesn't have a story; not a real one. Not like the cello prelude, not like his and Ryan's Chopin. It's eerie, it's passionate; no resolution, just defiance. It's chaotic but settled in its chaos, somehow: Brendon's current state fighting with the state he'd kill to reach. He doesn't often have so much emo that he needs to escape it, but Ryan's closed himself in his room, lights off, and Brendon can't, he can't just sit here with twenty different kinds of cabin fever and not lose his mind over and over again until he forgets he ever had it in the first place.

It was the night he came out to his parents, a year and a half ago, when he wasn't sure he'd ever see them again. He went home and he wouldn't let Ryan or Spencer come with him, wouldn't answer Jon's inquiring texts or Pete's grainy Sidekick photos of a rainbow sign he'd made proclaiming "I LOVE MY BIG GAY FRONTMAN." Shane took one look at him, pulled him into a hug, and took him by the hand into the music room, sitting him down at his piano and rifling through Brendon's stack of sheet music he'd always meant to learn and never did. He pulled out Liszt, and Brendon scoffed as Shane flipped to the page and set it down in front of him. "Learn this," he'd told him. Brendon asked why, and Shane said, "It's messy. The notes chase each other and never reach, never get answers, but it's beautiful. The chaos _is_ the beauty."

It sounded like a load of Buddhist bullshit at the time, but it worked. Still, Brendon isn't so sure there's anything beautiful about his chaos now as he sits alone in the music room, enveloped by the black windows and emptiness of night just outside with only the lamp atop the instrument to light his way, but he pounds the fuck out the keyboard, shivers as it echoes, feels the aching strain in his fingers as he trudges through the intricacies of the melody, forcing himself to start over if he makes a single mistake.

His fourteenth run is smooth to the end and he's sweating through the piece's rolling climax, eyes shut as his fingers fly by memory over the keys, so fully wrapped in it that by the time it ends, he's forgotten what silence feels like.

When he opens his eyes, Ryan's standing in front of him.

From the looks of him, he'd forgotten too.

He's wrecked, and beauty in chaos finally makes sense.

His eyes are red-rimmed, hair sticking up everywhere, mouth flushed like he'd been biting his lip to keep the sobs where Brendon couldn't hear them. He's in his plaid pajama pants, half falling off like always, always, like everything's the same; but he hasn't bothered with a shirt, and now he looks like he wishes he had, shoulders hunched nervously over his chest, bare save for the tiny silver _om_ symbol that's been on a chain around his neck since California. His hands are clasped in front of him, fingers twisting around one another, and Brendon aches to go to him, to pull him into his arms and just hold him despite his own pain, protect him from whatever's in his head that's done this to him.

But he can't. He can only stare, terrified his touch will be rejected, because twice in one night is too much.

Ryan isn't much better off. He stares back, hands finally releasing and falling to his sides, limp, as he takes his first step forward.

It seems like forever for him to get to where Brendon can touch him (can, but doesn't), one slow step after another like he's walking down the aisle or death row, Brendon can't tell which, but suddenly he's right there, close enough that the wide, loose legs of his pants brush against Brendon's knee, and their eyes haven't broken.

Ryan tries to smile but his breath is too short for the effort. Instead, he swallows, and his lips slowly part.

"I changed my mind."

Just like that. Brendon's heart pounds out a thousand beats at once and skips them all, and his stomach plummets, only to spring back up, jumbled and skittish.

He doesn't pull his eyes away from Ryan's, just keeps them locked there in case there's anything more he needs to read, but the way Ryan's looking at him, he's pretty much an open book.

He's begging for trust, and Brendon wants to say, _You have it_.

He can't.

He can only lean forward, hands shaking as they reach to touch Ryan's hips, sliding up the worn fabric until they're cupping the bare skin on his waist, and Brendon lets his head drop forward, the side of his face pressed into the velvet soft of Ryan's stomach. He can feel a heartbeat somewhere higher up, and he closes his eyes, soaking it in.

Ryan exhales above him, shaky, as his hands come up to tangle in Brendon's hair, stroking gently and rubbing at his head, soothing circles and broad, comforting strokes, until Brendon turns his face inward, pressing his mouth against the skin. He's not really kissing, just mouthing openly at any inch of skin he can reach, memorizing the feel of it, the smell of Ryan this close, even though he knows, oh god, somehow he _knows_ there's no rush, no need to memorize: this won't be his only chance. Just the thought has his lips stretching into a smile against Ryan's skin; and Ryan's answering response as he feels the reaction, his fingers tightening in Brendon's hair just enough to remind himself he's allowed, that Brendon's actually going to let him.

He whispers, " _Brendon_ ," and Brendon comes undone.

His hands are already wandering and he knows it's probably too fast, too soon, but Ryan's not stopping him and his movements are slow and liquid, enough of an excuse for how his fingers are tugging on the drawstrings of the plaid flannels, picking at the knot until it comes open, and the pants just. Fall.

Suddenly there's navy blue satin under his fingers and he leans back, just enough to validate it with his eyes, and smiles for real.

Ryan's far above him but Brendon can swear he feels him smile back as Brendon starts to slide his lips over the fabric, nothing obscene, just reverent, breathing hotly against Ryan's dick, already twitching beneath its confines.

He hears his name again, an octave higher, and pulls himself to his feet, his hands slipping into place around Ryan's waist as they stand pressed together, only their faces apart, wide eyes on wide eyes, breath on breath.

Ryan's hands cover enough space to feel like they're everywhere, one curled around Brendon's neck just as before, the other cupping his face, thumb stroking along his jaw, but when his eyes lose focus and his tongue dips out over his lip, it's for words and words only.

"You..."

It doesn't sound like there's anything else coming, but Brendon knows different. "It's okay. Say it."

Ryan's eyes drag back up to his, darting between them. "You make me feel like I'm falling."

Something feels like it's sliding into place, but Brendon can't tell what.

He whispers, "I'll catch you," and kisses him.

It's Ryan who leads this time but there isn't much of a battle for it, just a following, and as desperate as it is, it's slower than Brendon would've thought, like they have nowhere to be and nowhere to run, even if they wanted. But Ryan isn't running, just using his leverage to pull Brendon close until neither can breathe, his other hand sliding down Brendon's cheek to grip his shoulder, squeezing tight against his t-shirt. Brendon just holds on, too focused on staying upright do to much else, thumbs rubbing circles over Ryan's hipbones: an anchor.

They kiss and they kiss and they _kiss_ , just right there, hips pressed into the side of the piano and windows bare all around them, for all the woods to see. A whole new rush builds when Brendon realizes he's figuring out what Ryan likes, how he likes to kiss, be kissed; how he likes to touch; what press of Brendon's fingers will have him pushing closer, whimpering into his mouth, and Brendon's eternally grateful that it's actually a surprise, after so many years of entertaining every fantasy his mind could contrive for this. Despite them all, it's nothing like he imagined, and a thousand times better.

A pleasant ache starts to settle into his jaw as their tongues move over one another, and it could be hours that they've been here or only minutes; Brendon's out of practice, but he doesn't have much chance to adjust because Ryan's mouth is suddenly gone. He only gets in a good half second of panic before he opens his eyes, just in time to see Ryan dropping to his knees, fingers pulling at Brendon's fly until the zipper's down and Ryan eases him out, fingers closing hot and sure around him, and Brendon. Brendon just keens.

"Fuck," he hisses as Ryan starts to stroke him, light and testing. "Ryan -- _fuck_."

"Later," Ryan hums absently, ducking his head to slide his tongue up the shaft in a broad, fiery line of wet-hot.

Brendon makes some ungodly noise and flails one hand until it hits the piano, a sharp sting against the wood, but he holds onto the edge like a life preserver and grips hard, his hand already slipping from sweat, the other falling to rest in Ryan's hair, stroking gently through the mess of strands.

"Um." Ryan looks up at him, eyes blown. "I've never -- "

"You don't -- "

"I _want_."

Brendon blinks. "I -- okay."

And he doesn't even care that he sounds more like one of the mice from Cinderella than a twenty-two-year-old _man_ , because Ryan's _mouth_ is on his _dick_ and wow, apparently, some people are born for this. Because Ryan? Was _born for this_.

"Holyfuckingshit," Brendon splutters, trying to divide his willpower between not coming right the fuck now and not yanking on Ryan's hair. It's hard, god, it's _so_ hard because Shane's the last one who did this and he used to love when Brendon pulled his hair, so the sense memory is killer. And it's not like Ryan's helping matters, sliding all the way down to where his hand's gripping the base and sucking tight, humming softly around him, pleased, whenever Brendon makes a noise. He's sloppy and wet and uncoordinated about it like all first-timers are, but that just so happens to be Brendon's favorite technique: none at all, just messy and reckless until he falls apart without warning.

And oh, fuck, _warning_.

"Ryan -- shit, stop, I'm gonna -- "

Ryan pulls off but only to get his bearings, to shoot Brendon a meaningful look, grab hold of his hips and shove him back against the piano, pinning him in place as Ryan sinks back down, hollowing his cheeks and circling his tongue over the head once, twice. Brendon looks down at the last second, dizzy in his own rushing climax, to see Ryan's free hand pressing hard against his own crotch to keep from coming, and that's it, it's over.

And Ryan just fucking takes it -- he chokes on it, a little, but he doesn't pull off, just lets Brendon fill his mouth until Brendon's nerves are so shot he has to push at Ryan's head, only now just realizing his control had zoomed straight to hell, because his fingers are curled tight in Ryan's hair, shaking under his own grip.

"Sorry, sorry," he stutters, releasing him, breathless as Ryan climbs to his feet, tucking him gently back into his jeans, but Ryan just shakes his head, cups Brendon's face in his hands, and kisses him.

And -- and _oh_.

Ryan didn't just remember, he fucking _did_ it, he's _doing_ it, pushing Brendon's come into his mouth until their tongues are meeting through it, swirling it around between them as they swallow. Somewhere through it, Ryan's fingers snake down their bodies to find Brendon's hand and bring it up, pressing it back into his hair until Brendon gets the message and tangles it there on his own, tugging gently to move Ryan where he wants him, and Ryan moans into it, his body pressing hard against Brendon's in response.

Ryan is seriously the best _ever_.

But there's a record shortage of oxygen and they can only kiss for so long before their lungs are close to bursting. It's more reckless panting than breathing when they finally pull back, but Brendon can't complain. Their noses brush, faces dipping in for short, pecking kisses, eyes half-lidded and lips stretched into matching smiles.

"Hi," Brendon whispers, hands splayed across Ryan's back.

"Hi," Ryan grins, his voice raw, all rough and gravelly from, oh god, _that_. "Way to break the ice, huh?"

Brendon huffs out a laugh, and somehow it sets his whole body shaking, shivering like he's cold, but it feels like he's on fire.

"Hey," Ryan whispers, squeezing his arms. "Hey. I'm here. I'm here."

Brendon closes his eyes and nods. This is going to take some getting used to.

"I think," Brendon pants after a moment, inhaling slow, "you should get your ass upstairs. Like, now."

 

+++

 

Upstairs is... different.

It's so backwards and stupid, so just like them, that the nerves would set in _after_ Ryan's had Brendon's dick in his mouth, but it's okay. It's okay because Brendon's shoving Ryan towards his bedroom, grinning stupidly at each other as Brendon disappears into his own room for tools of the trade. He doesn't know what he's expecting when he gets back; it's not like Ryan's sprawled out naked on the bed. He's just -- he's _there_ , standing in the middle of the room, _waiting_ for Brendon, his body framed by the soft light from the bathroom, and suddenly, everything's kind of stunningly real.

Eyes locked, he reaches past Ryan to toss the items on the bed, turns back around. He's still in his unzipped jeans, and Ryan's still in his underwear, and the light's lower, but he feels more exposed than he did downstairs. It must show in his face, his emotions always do, because Ryan reaches out, takes his hand and pulls him in close, gracelessly yanking Brendon's t-shirt over his head before fitting their bare chests together.

"Hey," Ryan breathes, tilting his head to mouth at Brendon's neck; open, wet kisses that trail down over his shoulder, his collarbone, before his tongue dips into the hollow at the base of his neck, then slides up his throat, over his Adam's apple and the five o'clock shadow budding across his jaw. "I want you."

Brendon's eyes fall shut, fingers skating up and down Ryan's sides, itching to tighten, to claim. "Yeah?"

"Mmm."

"What do you want?"

Ryan reaches down, palms him through his jeans. "I want you to fuck me."

He's still nibbling at Brendon's neck and Brendon just comes apart, shuddering under the touch and the words, the glaring reality of them, and there must be more bubbling to the surface than he realizes, because Ryan pulls back, studying his face.

"You okay?"

"I. Yeah. Just a little. Overwhelmed."

Ryan frowns, cradling his face. "Why?"

"Because it's _you_."

And logically it makes no sense; it's exactly why he _shouldn't_ be freaked out; they've been crawling to this point for six years, and it's not like they have anything left to be embarrassed about. Ryan's seen him dance naked and sing Backstreet Boys on Pete's dining room table. He stayed in bed with him all night when Brendon came down in cold sweats after his first cocaine high. He's heard him have sex; hell, he's seen him throw up in the back lounge, for fuck's sake. This isn't the apocalypse, it's not even marriage; it's _sex_.

Only, it's sex he's been waiting six years to have.

Ryan kisses him, soft and quick. "Okay. It's okay. We don't have to..."

"Ryan, _fuck_ , I want to."

Ryan blinks. "Yeah?"

There isn't a word powerful enough for how much _Yes_ this is, so Brendon doesn't try. He bites his lip and swallows, stepping back and dropping his hands to his sides.

"Lie down."

Ryan's eyes are instantly dark as it sinks in, and he's backing up to the bed, quick to follow orders. A thrill surges through Brendon as it happens and he tries not to let his mind entertain the fact, imagine how much he wants to play with it. Instead, he follows, waits until Ryan's spread out on his back before stepping forward, undoing his pants the rest of the way and shoving them down over his hips before kicking them off his ankles.

Ryan stares. Ryan stares like he's been waiting six years to stare, without having to hold up the pretense of disinterest. He stares like he's waited as long as Brendon has, and the thought is impossible, but it's there.

Brendon's hard all over again as he steps forward, crawling on top of Ryan and reaching beneath the waistband of his underwear, only just now realizing he still hasn't seen Ryan naked -- at least not like this. The realization comes a moment too late, once he's already slid the panties off and away, leaving only Ryan, just as hard, flushed and leaking onto his stomach, and motherfucking gorgeous.

He tries to say twenty different things but only a gasp comes out, and at the same moment Ryan reaches up and tugs him down, their mouths crashing.

It's both numbing and sharp, the sparking friction and how they manage to align themselves just right like they've known each other too long not to figure this out, easy as breathing, their cocks brushing with each grinding thrust of their hips, tongues fighting to match the pace. It's too much too soon, and this isn't how Brendon wants it to end, so he pulls back, starts inching his way down Ryan's body, tasting as much skin as he can, memorizing it all just in case, just in _case_.

Ryan's bucking up into it, hands in Brendon's hair all the way down, and Brendon nearly impales himself on one deadly hipbone before dipping lower, nipping at the soft flesh of Ryan's inner thigh before he slips his hands underneath, spreading Ryan's legs until he can get his mouth where he wants it.

Ryan seems to figure out where he's headed even before it's clear in Brendon's mind, but it doesn't stop the choked, desperate gasp ripped from Ryan's throat as Brendon's tongue flicks out over his entrance, all business and no teasing.

Teasing's for later. Now is _now_.

Knowing it's a _thing_ for Ryan does nothing to soften the reaction he gets, Ryan practically vibrating beneath him, each breath sharper than the last as he strains under the effort to keep from pushing down onto Brendon's mouth, get him deeper. Brendon goes deeper anyway, using his hands to spread the cheeks apart until he can push inside, shallow thrusts chasing the taste (of Ryan, it's _Ryan_ ), sliding one hand inward to cup his balls, stroking lightly; and the sharp twinge of pleasurepain that follows as Ryan squeezes tight in his hair, fingernails digging in.

Brendon can tell Ryan's getting close, too close, and pulls back, scrambling for the bottle of lube by the pillow. Ryan watches him as he slicks up three fingers, easing the first inside without much warning until he thinks better of it, keeping it still until he crawls awkwardly back up Ryan's body, close to his face.

"Okay?"

Ryan nods. "I've done this."

"I thought -- "

"To myself."

Jesus fuck, _images_.

"Hey, stay with me," Ryan breathes, smiling, and Brendon opens his eyes, refocusing.

He stays, eyes close on Ryan's as he works in a second finger, spreading them out inside as much he can but Ryan's fucking _tight_ , and whatever he's done to himself ( _god_ ) isn't going to be enough.

"Relax," Brendon whispers, because Ryan isn't, he's eager but tense, and Brendon slides back down, closing his lips around the head of Ryan's cock, tasting him sharp and thick on his tongue as he adds a third, driving them just a little deeper, just enough.

" _Fuck_ ," Ryan gasps. "Just keep -- fuck."

"Yeah?" Brendon asks, trying not to grin as he works over that spot, relentless, entranced by the way Ryan's dissolving under the touch.

Ryan nods, frantic. "Come on. Come on, just -- "

Brendon pulls out and Ryan's already got the condom unwrapped, pulling himself up to roll it down over Brendon's dick, just like that, no preamble, and Brendon bites hard on his lip because Jesus, Ryan's _fingers_.

It's the usual awkward moment of mechanics, tense and stilted until he manages to line up and push forward, slow as he can manage, watching Ryan's face until his hips finally still, meeting Ryan's. It's so, so much, and he just halts for a second, forehead dropped to Ryan's shoulder until Ryan hooks a leg around his back and lifts his hips, the message clear.

He starts a slow rhythm, pulling back to keep his eyes on Ryan's, wide open in a way Brendon's never seen, like Ryan's giving more than he realized he had available to give. And Brendon takes it all, keeps it safe, kissing him through it as he begins to move, gentle until Ryan starts to meet his thrusts, challenge him, convince him he's not about to break.

It's not gonna last, that's pretty much a given, but Brendon draws it out until he can hook an arm around Ryan's leg and push it up over his shoulder, driving in at that perfect angle and reaching one hand up to shove Ryan's wrists together until he can grab hold of them both, pinning them tight into the mattress above Ryan's head. Ryan's eyes fall back into his head, dark swollen mouth dropping open as he wrangles one hand free and works it between their sweat-glistened bodies to close around his cock. Brendon starts to lose his rhythm just at the sight, Ryan powerless beneath him, until Ryan actually cries out -- some feral, guttural noise Brendon suspects he's never let himself make in his life, and spills between them, shooting over their stomachs, and Brendon's gone, tumbling after him with neon sparks flashing behind his eyes.

It feels like waking up when they come down. Ryan holds onto him tight, doesn't let him pull out, just keeps him close until Brendon starts to kiss him -- small, nibbling kisses, licking over his lips and into his mouth, gentle and sweet as Ryan's hands trail up and down his back, rubbing over the tight muscles until they release.

When they finally collapse on their sides, limbs re-tangling after Brendon chucks the condom, Ryan's looking at him, sated and grinning.

Brendon snorts, reaching out to bat at a rebellious strand of hair by Ryan's ear. "You have _total_ fuck hair."

Ryan smiles bigger. "You did that."

"Yeah." Brendon's voice sounds ridiculous, awe-struck and wispy, but he doesn't really care, because, god, Ryan's _smile_. "God, your _smile_."

The smile softens into something deeper, something more, as Brendon reaches out to touch Ryan's face, fingers tracing the curve of his lips.

Ryan kisses his fingertips and whispers, "You did that too."

 

+++

 

"This."

"Hmm?" Brendon cranes his neck around to see where Ryan's hovering over him, lips pressed to the little dip in Brendon's spine just above the curve of his ass.

"This is my favorite spot," Ryan whispers, kissing it.

Brendon smiles, rolling onto his back. "Since when?"

"Always. I stare at your ass all the time," he replies nonchalantly, unfazed by Brendon's shift in position and starting to work his way back up, mouthing along his hip and up toward the center of his chest. "I can't believe how clueless you are."

"Well, it's all yours now," Brendon smiles, stretching out long, exhibitionist to the end. "You can do whatever you want with it."

Ryan raises an eyebrow. "Yeah?"

Brendon just looks at him. His face has never been able to hide much, and he's counting on it now, because Ryan's eyes darken and he breathes, "Fuck," crawling back up beside Brendon and pulling him forward. "C'mere."

Brendon goes limp for him, letting Ryan pull at him until Brendon's cradled in Ryan's arms, small and balled up, like a child, one of Ryan's arms curled around his shoulders.

"Spread your legs a little," he whispers.

Brendon complies, keeping his eyes on Ryan's shadowed face as Ryan's free hand reaches up, tracing the seam of Brendon's lips until they part, until Brendon opens up on a whimper and sucks them in on instinct, tongue swirling until they're wet. He releases them with a pop, Ryan's breath already short at the sensation, and watches as Ryan dips the hand between his legs and nudges gently at his hole before slipping one inside. Brendon melts under it, and it's odd to see Ryan's the one shaking, fingers trembling as he works in a second, third, face awestruck and finely tuned to Brendon's reactions.

"Stop," Brendon whispers when he knows he's close, and he hates the sound of the word, but he wants more.

"What? You okay?"

Brendon nods. "Just. Need you."

Ryan doesn't need to be begged (but god, Brendon _would_ ); he's scrambling across the bed for the string of condoms and Brendon takes the opportunity to position himself, elbows and knees, head bent low and neck bared: surrender. Giving back everything Ryan gave him, and then some.

Ryan sucks in a sharp inhale when he turns around, faced with the sight, but he doesn't falter, just fights for control over his breath as he kneels behind Brendon, hands stroking over the swell of his ass as he lines up and slides home, careful but confident, and Brendon can't _breathe_. He doesn't want to, either, just wants this, Ryan filling him up, full and pulsing inside him, hips meeting Brendon's on every thrust. Ryan fucks him like he does everything he cares about, with precision and heart and focus, always striving for better. But for Brendon there's nothing better, nothing for him now but to break down, just for Ryan to piece him back together.

 

+++

 

Ryan watches him until one a.m., and Brendon lets him.

He's quiet, he's still, and he's focused, and he doesn't know how it happened, but Ryan's fascinated enough by it that he doesn't look away. Just touches him, now and then, where they're not already tangled together. A hand on his face, trailing down his shoulder. Leaning in to kiss him, brief, chaste. They don't talk. They've talked for years. Now, they watch.

"Wanna shower with me?" Brendon finally asks, and Ryan nods.

Brendon's on his knees the second Ryan steps under the stream alongside him. He whispers, "Mine," into the soft, water-slick crease at the top of Ryan's thigh. It's too soft to be heard over the water, but it's too presumptuous to say aloud anyway, and Ryan's massaging his soaked hair as Brendon slides his mouth down, throat relaxed and open, and they don't need words.

 

+++

 

"I don't want to go to sleep."

"Then we won't."

It's a valiant effort, but by two a.m. Brendon's starting to drift, Ryan's fingers having long settled into a sleepy rhythm on the side of his neck. He's molded himself against Brendon's side, hard angles fitting into Brendon's curves -- at least that's what Brendon remembers before his eyes closed.

He has no idea how long he was out, maybe just seconds, but he wakes up with a lapful of Ryan, pushing and pulling at him until he consents to move.

"Hey," Ryan kisses him awake, kiss after kiss until Brendon opens his eyes. "Hey, sit up."

"Wh -- "

Brendon obeys because it's Ryan and they're naked and saying no to anything would feel like going against the laws of the universe, but he's not expecting to find Ryan hard against him, straddling his hips, a condom already in hand as he starts to roll it down over Brendon's cock, which -- hey -- is far, far more awake than he is.

"Holy _shit_ ," he hisses, pulling himself up to sit slouched against the headboard, fists twisted tight in the sheets as he watches, slack-jawed, while Ryan positions himself and sinks down, head falling back to expose the stretch of his throat, whole body shuddering as Brendon fills him up.

He finally remembers he's got hands, bringing them up to brace them around Ryan's waist, holding him in place and feeling him move, hips swerving in dizzying figure eights as his torso falls forward, forehead pressed to Brendon's and arms looped loose around his shoulders, tightening as Brendon starts to move with him, to pull him closer.

"This, just like this," Ryan breathes into his mouth, and Brendon nods. It's nonsense, doesn't mean anything, but it's a _yes_ , making up for six years of no.

He's just starting to think there's no way he can go a third time, not all the way, when Ryan suddenly bites down hard on his shoulder and comes between them, and Brendon stops thinking.

 

+++

 

It's six a.m. when Ryan smiles into his neck and says, "I've never had this much sex in my life."

Brendon smiles, but Ryan can't see it, he's spooned behind him so they can stare out the window together, the gray dawn sinking into muted yellows as the sun starts to rise.

Brendon twists around in his arms until he can see him, Ryan's overtired eyes and crooked smile, the still flushed glow of his skin. "Wanna have some more?"

It's a joke and they laugh, past exhausted and too easily amused, but when they stop laughing it stops being a joke, and when Brendon leans in to kiss him, Ryan meets him halfway.

It's the first time they've done this with any proper light, and it should be a little weird, a little embarrassing with how wrecked and messy they are, for the sun to set their features into bright relief, expressions finally sharp and visible. But Brendon can't wrench his eyes from it as Ryan fucks him into the mattress, slow and deep and just this side of too intense. He's raw and split open and the burn hits harder, but it's good, _good_ , better than, just what he wants, again and again.

He whispers, "Ryan," but it sounds like _I love you_.

Ryan buries his face into Brendon's neck and says, "I know. I know."


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you guys enjoy these last two chapters because I'm not going to be writing anything for awhile. I'm fucking wiped out. Anyway, Brendon's fascination with portable toilets belongs to me and me alone. For those doubting the boys' basketball skills, I suggest taking a look at [this](http://i86.photobucket.com/albums/k81/Ryannmmm/isthisforeal.jpg), and also their clothes in the drunken jailbait sleepover pics.
> 
>  **Dedication:** [](http://siubhlach.livejournal.com/profile)[**siubhlach**](http://siubhlach.livejournal.com/) , [](http://taraangelx.livejournal.com/profile)[**taraangelx**](http://taraangelx.livejournal.com/) , [](http://takkatakkatakka.livejournal.com/profile)[**takkatakkatakka**](http://takkatakkatakka.livejournal.com/) ; a very special thanks to [](http://redorchids.livejournal.com/profile)[](http://redorchids.livejournal.com/)**redorchids** , who co-wrote the last sex scene with me when I was ready to give up on this damn fic altogether. The lyrics and most of the good ideas in here are hers as well.

**7.**

 

Ryan groans weakly. "Can't move."

Brendon chuckles against his shoulder, snuggling into him deeper, sealing any remaining bits of their bodies that have managed to pry apart. "'S normal after your first time."

Ryan snaps his hips up, lazy and constricted under the weight, hipbones nonetheless digging into Brendon's waist in retaliation. "Or, you're squashing me. Asshole."

"Oh." Brendon rolls off, grinning sheepishly. "Sorry."

Ryan's smile beams bright when he sits up, leaning over Brendon to cup his face in one cuddle-warmed hand and kiss the corner of his mouth. "Don't be," he breathes hot into Brendon's ear. "I like you on top of me."

A chill curls around Brendon's spine at the words, a note of _Dirty talk: good_ imprinting itself into his mental notepad. His mouth feels suddenly parched, and does this weird jump to drooling wet as Ryan peels himself from the bed, walking naked to the bathroom. He's visibly stiff from the way they've been mashed and tangled together all night, in periods both motionless and violently mobile, and it turns his normal walk into this rolling sort of swagger, hips rocking from side to side like a cat. A visual flash of memory ( _Fuck, harder, please_ ) makes Brendon's cock twitch under the sheet as the bathroom door swings shut, cracked at the edge.

He licks his lips, still tasting Ryan, and smiles.

Ryan takes his sweet ass time preening, and when he emerges his hair's even messier, shooting out in directions Brendon hadn't even known existed. He leers at Brendon, crooked smile and raised eyebrow making him look so, so much sexier than anyone should after sacrificing a night’s worth of sleep.

"'M starving,” Brendon mumbles, stretching lazily. “We should go out for breakfast. That place in town."

"Mm," Ryan hums, staring at the spot where the sheet dips between Brendon's legs. "We should shower first. Don't want Ruth to be traumatized by our scandalous appearances."

Brendon snorts. "Dude, she already knows we're fucking."

Ryan's eyes dart up, suddenly focused, smirk wiped clean. "Yeah, but no one else does."

Brendon shrugs. He doesn't mention how if he didn't think Ryan would dismember him, he'd drive back to Vegas, climb to the highest peak of the Strip, and proclaim his love via megaphone.

It's one of those moments he'll look back on in a few days and think, _...Oh_.

But now it's nothing, it's just Ryan, watching Brendon chew teasingly on his lip till it's red and plump and then Ryan's on the bed, on top of him, all around him. Their tongues swim into a sleepy battle for dominance as Ryan grinds his hips down, reaching one hand between their bodies and wrenching the sheet away, fingers circling around Brendon's erection.

"What..." Brendon starts, breathless as Ryan's face presses harder into his neck, breath coming ragged and heated as he pushes down, his own dick rubbing shamelessly against Brendon's hip. Brendon's hands come up to Ryan's hair, finding a grip in the mess and tangles and holding on tight.

Ryan's own grip firms, his strokes speeding up and a muffled groan pulling ragged from his throat as Brendon chokes out a gasp. It's too dry, just this side of too much, too soon, but it's so _good_ and it's _Ryan_ and Ryan's _fingers_ and Ryan rutting up against him like an insatiable teenager, and Brendon's a goner.

"If we're gonna be dirty," Ryan pants, "might as well take advantage of it."

Brendon bites his lip and comes.

"Fuck," Ryan breathes, and spills over Brendon's thigh, hips stuttering sharp against him.

It's only seconds before they're laughing, low and smug and silent as it rumbles up from their chests, faces turned inward, inhaling each other. Brendon feels a trickle of come dribble over his hip and down the crease of his thigh, too warm and filthy and perfect, and his whole body shudders. Ryan just holds him tighter.

It's official: there is only one thing in the world better than sex.

Sex with _Ryan_.

 

+++

 

They scrub their hands and faces and wrap themselves in the cleanest layers of clothes they can find, pulled straight from the dryer, and Brendon lets Ryan drive. It wasn't even a question when Ryan snatched his keys off the table by the door, tossed them smugly into the air, and announced, "I'm driving," before sauntering out to the car with the air of a man whose dick had been well occupied for the better part of eight hours.

Brendon will never admit it, but cocky is a really, really good look on Ryan.

"Oh my god, it's a Fast Break!" Brendon shrieks as they pass a construction site on the outskirts of town.

"The fuck?" Ryan asks, lifting his hand from Brendon's thigh to turn down the volume knob by the radio.

"Look, back there. The port-a-potty. It was a Fast Break! I haven't seen those since like, Atlanta."

"What the hell's a Fast Break? Isn't that, like, a chocolate bar?"

Brendon rolls his eyes because seriously, how does the world not know these things? "It's the _brand_ , Ryan. Port-a-potties have the best brand names ever. Next time you get bored on the bus, watch for them. Make a list of all the best ones. I've got one saved on my laptop."

Ryan forces his eyes from the road because clearly Brendon deserves attention for this, even if it's not the sort he was hoping for. "I read _books_ ," he states simply.

"Whatever, dude, the potties own your books. There's Fast Break and Happy Cans and Comfort Zone and Pure Potties and Hop-on-Jon and Big Jon and Jonny-on-the-Spot... Jon's in a whole bunch of them."

"I'm sure he's deeply honored."

Brendon opens his mouth to agree, but when he looks over at Ryan, Ryan's looking at him like he might want to experiment with shock therapy.

"What?!"

"I just." Ryan turns back to the road, his brow creased but eyes smiling as he squints out the glare of sun. "I just find it really hard to believe this is the same person who gave me like, five orgasms last night."

Brendon tucks his hands into his lap and grins.

Ryan turns the music up, dropping his hand casually so it looks like it just fell back into Brendon's lap out of convenience. He doesn't react when Brendon upturns his own palm and squeezes; he just keeps humming, one arm outstretched to the wheel, but when Brendon turns to look at him, a half-circle of smile is indented across his profile.

 

+++

 

It's nothing, nothing, _nothing_ until it actually happens. Brendon can't seem to spare any analysis for things that just feel right at the time, and then it's always too late to retract, the deed done and disastrous.

He ducks inside the convenience store while Ryan's filling up the gas tank, long fingers drumming impatiently against the road-dusty silver paint of the car, the other hand wrapped obscenely around the pump handle.

Ryan had called after him, "I need sugar" ("What kind?" "Anything.") so really, it's Ryan's fault that Brendon emerges with a candy ring and displays it to Ryan in his palm, beaming confidence.

Ryan stares at it. "What the hell is that?"

"It's -- " Brendon looks down, bewildered, just to check that he's not going blind. It's pretty obvious what it is. "It's a candy ring, dumbass. Marry me?"

Ryan stares at him, face whiter than if Brendon had dumped the entire bag of flour over his head, eyes wide and dark in contrast.

Brendon swallows. "Dude, it's -- it's a joke."

A splash of color fades back into Ryan's face. "Oh."

"Sorry." Brendon's smile turns awkward until he just ditches it completely, ducking his head.

"Hey."

Ryan's eyes dart in every direction, up, down, around, high and low, before he reaches up to hold Brendon's chin and tugs him forward for a kiss, brief but soft.

Brendon tries not to let it feel like overcompensation.

 

+++

 

Inside, it's business as usual. Ryan doesn't touch him and Brendon doesn't expect him to, just lets Ruth lead them back to their table and grin at them with sparkling eyes, too knowing.

"Looks like you two had fun last night."

Ryan drops his fork.

"Um." Brendon looks up from him to Ruth, trying to find just the right smile to put on display. Damage control is Spencer’s strength, and Jon’s; Brendon’s geared more towards just... damage. "Yeah, we watched a few movies, hung out with some friends, had some drinks..."

"I'll have the number three, no sausage, just water with lime, with the fruit cup," Ryan says. "And. A side of toast. Please."

Brendon looks at him, Ryan's face ducked down toward the table as Ruth scribbles away on her pad. "Same."

She collects the tall plastic menus before Brendon can figure out what a number three is, promising a quick delivery and offering them both a wink before hobbling back towards the kitchen.

"Sorry," Ryan sighs. "I just. Sorry."

"It's okay."

"I'm just not..."

"Ryan, it's okay."

And it isn't, but it is, because they have this much. Brendon doesn't need to hold his hand across the table or play footsie with him underneath it, he doesn't need to kiss him in front of strangers or walk down the sidewalk with his hand tucked into Ryan's back pocket. Behind closed doors is enough, more than he could've ever asked for, and Ryan will come around, he will, and one day he won't be scared. One day when he realizes there's nothing to be scared of. And it's okay.

It is.

 

+++

 

It's easy to forget, too easy, _scary_ easy when they're back inside, car nestled contentedly in the pine needles and sunlight, the cabin all theirs. When they climb into the shower, shedding grease-fumed clothes and huddling together under the water, the morning washes away with the dirt. Ryan's bold with his touches, his body loose and eager under Brendon's hands as they press together and kiss, too exhausted and oversexed to do more. All the sleep-deprived adrenaline shoots straight to their lips and their fingers, mouths moving wet and pillowy together in the hot stream, hands gripping biceps and hips, holding and pulling until Ryan's lips slip across Brendon's cheek to spill overtired nonsense into his ear, "So fucking beautiful like this, want you, always wanted you, just like this."

This, _this_ isn't overcompensation. It's not compensation at all. It's real. It's Ryan, just as Brendon knows him, imagined he'd be. This is Ryan when he's safe, no pretense or control, just open, ready to absorb and be absorbed in turn.

This is why Brendon fell. Falls. Is falling, still, tumbling through the air unsure of where or how he'll land, only that he'll be caught.

They barely towel off before they tumble onto the bed, spreading their towels out beneath them to protect their clean skin from the soiled sheets. Brendon opens his arms and Ryan fits himself into them, back to Brendon's chest, beads of water joining between their bodies.

Ryan whispers, "I missed you."

"When?"

"In California."

Brendon holds his breath for a moment. It's not -- they don't talk about it now; it's done. Ryan wanted space, Brendon gave it to him tenfold with his lips pressed into a tight bitter line, Ryan realized he didn't want space after all and was too proud to say so, too afraid, watching from afar as everyone functioned like a well-oiled machine without him, or so he'd thought. Everyone was an idiot, everyone missed everyone else and pretended not to, the band suffered, and they fixed it. Possibly because Shane shoved them all into a hotel room one night in South Africa and said, "Fix it." Shit happens. It was then, and it's over.

But something tells him this isn't about then; it's about now.

He nuzzles his nose against Ryan's neck and says, "I missed you too. So did Spence."

Ryan laces their fingers together at the ends of their outstretched arms. "Don't let me leave again."

Brendon swallows, pulling him closer as sleep presses in on him, eyes drooping shut. "Then don't try."

 

+++

 

It's almost dinnertime when Brendon wakes up, and it reminds him of California, when they evolved into fully nocturnal schedules. Ryan had started it, insomnia having launched into unforgiving assault mode; the four a.m. texts to Brendon that meant nothing, _there was a spider and now i cant find it_ ; _i think i heard a coyote_. Brendon would stay awake for hours staring at the words glaring bright from his Sidekick, wondering if he was meant to respond. If this was just Ryan's effort to be civil despite the... time off (separation, break, all ugly words Brendon refused to use), or if it was his way of reaching out, trying to bring them back together. Brendon was too proud to hope for the latter and wind up wrong, so he'd type out ten different replies to each and delete them all.

It's hard to believe that time ever existed now, looking down at Ryan still curled up naked from their all-day nap, breathing even and soft against the pillow. Brendon kisses the rounded top of Ryan's shoulder before tugging the sheet up over it and pads downstairs in a pair of sweatpants and one of Shane's old t-shirts, shutting the door silently behind him.

He eats a strawberry Pop-Tart straight from the box, untoasted, and taps out the left hand of a melody while he eats, one he'd been half working on when they'd come back to Vegas. His right hand joins in when the remaining piece is small enough to shove into his mouth, and it sounds -- good. Better than he remembers. Clearer, like he hadn't really been focused when he'd started it. So much for sex fogging the brain.

He feels more than hears Ryan come in, doesn't even register it until it's legitimately _touch_ , until Ryan's arms are snaking around him, down his chest, and Brendon can't help but lean back into it, into the warmth of Ryan's bare middle, where his hips meet the low line of his boxer briefs.

Ryan curls around him, lips at his ear as one finger traces Brendon's nipple, and whispers, "Don't stop."

Right now, Brendon kind of hates him as much as he loves him.

"Want this on the next album," Ryan says softly, and of course he'd _know_ Brendon had written it, doesn't even have to ask, and Brendon finds himself smiling easily despite the tension.

"Did you know..." Ryan starts, sleep-loose fingers running up and down his torso as Brendon struggles to maintain the melody, "that I watch you play, every night on stage since forever?"

Brendon shudders, fingers fumbling over a string of notes.

"You're always so focused at the piano, you'd never notice. But I did. I do. Every night, I watch your fingers and I can't look away."

" _Ryan_."

Ryan lets him stop then, guiding his head back so they can kiss. The angle's awkward and twisted until Ryan slinks down to straddle the piano bench, and then it's perfect, head-on and even and sweet, Ryan's hands on Brendon's thigh and fitted over the curve of his ass, and Brendon just melting into it like butter -- like some warm, liquefying haze, but then again he's not quite awake, and kissing Ryan tends to melt his brain anyway.

Ryan's smiling when they pull apart. "I see you had dinner."

"Not really. We can make tacos like you wanted."

"Can I have another cello lesson first?"

Brendon grins. "I knew you had ulterior motives."

Ryan pinches him, but sits patiently while Brendon drags out the instrument, pulling it carefully from its case and squashing himself back into the chair, waiting for Ryan to join him.

"Tell me what you remember," Brendon instructs, descending to full teacher mode as he hands Ryan the bow.

"I remember..."

Ryan shifts around in the seat, trying to position himself as Brendon had said, legs and fingers spread, arm at the proper angle, all focus and determination, but the movements are innocently obscene, inching him back against Brendon's crotch, and even thought it's allowed this time, the effect isn't softened in the least.

Brendon swallows. "Good. What else?"

"Um..." Ryan shifts a little more, trying to fit his fingers over the strings to prepare for the one note Brendon had played with him, and holds the bow in place, poised for performance. "Like this?"

"Mm-hmm," Brendon hums, dipping his head to nip at the curve of Ryan's neck, and Ryan gasps, the bow slipping and drawing across the strings in a jarring screech of anti-music.

"Asshole," Ryan hisses, but he's leaning into it, dropping his head to the opposite side to give Brendon better access, and Brendon doesn't stop, just keeps sucking a line of cherry-red bruises into his neck, slow but deep, thorough, as Ryan's breath loses whatever tenuous rhythm it had.

"Lay it down," Brendon instructs, "gently, on its side."

Ryan leans over to follow orders, placing the instrument on the floor as Brendon extracts himself from the chair and kneels in front, pushing on Ryan's thighs until he drops back to the chair, slumped down, knees and lips parted.

"Hi," Brendon grins, sliding up between Ryan's legs, hands rubbing up and down his thighs.

Ryan grins back, lopsided, his eyes all but dark liquid sex.

"My head was kinda fuzzy last night in the shower..." Brendon muses, curling his fingers under the waistband of Ryan's underwear until Ryan lifts up, allowing it to be pulled down, agonizingly slow as Brendon stops to breathe him in, nuzzling his face into the crease at the top of his thigh, cheek brushing his hardening cock. "Don't think I really got a good feel for this... guess I should try it again, figure out what you like..."

"Yeah?" Ryan counters, breathless.

"Mmm, yeah." Brendon offers an experimental lick across the head, one quick swirl around the tip before dipping down to the underside to trace a full circle, slow and practiced.

"Dude, _fuck_ ," Ryan breathes, mouth hanging shamelessly open.

Brendon sits back on his heels, admiring. "You seriously have the most amazing dick I've ever seen in my life, porn included, swear to god."

Ryan's little grunt of impatience is answer enough, but it doesn't stop him from hissing, "Then maybe you should do something with it."

Brendon makes sure his lips make contact again before the low chuckle rumbles up from his throat, the vibrations spilling over to Ryan's cock and drawing out a shudder. "I totally knew you'd be a bitch about this," Brendon notes cheerfully before bobbing down and pulling Ryan full into his mouth, sucking hard just for kicks before letting up, allowing his spit to coat the length for an easier slide before he starts up for real; long, thorough pumps that have Ryan shaking to keep himself from thrusting up, his fingers clenching and unclenching in Brendon's hair, like the rhythm might keep him grounded. It shouldn't be so hot -- or fuck, maybe it should, to see Ryan fighting for restraint when, by default, control is his virtue. But his virtue's well soiled now, the way he's gradually losing it every time Brendon goes down, a little further on each until Ryan's dick hits the back of his throat and Brendon swallows around it. Control is history as Ryan's hips jerk, helpless and chaotic, before he forces himself to freeze.

"Sorry," he apologizes when Brendon pulls off, coughing mostly for dramatic effect, and gazing up at him. "God, I'm sorry, Jesus, don't _stop_."

His hands stroke encouragement in Brendon's hair, eyes pleading, but Brendon. Brendon has other, more devious plans.

Slowly, for clarity but mostly to work the visual, he slides his hands from Ryan's thighs and clasps them behind his back, interlocking his fingers.

Ryan swallows hard. "Dude."

Brendon raises an eyebrow.

" _Fuck_ ," Ryan gasps, hands shakily reclaiming their grasp in Brendon's hair as he gently guides his head back down, onto his cock, and slowly presses his hips upward.

Brendon hums around him, tipping his head back in invitation to go deeper before Ryan chokes on a high-pitched breath and starts to move, slowly fucking his mouth, too careful and too precise until he just _can't_. Brendon's waiting for Ryan to push his limits, test him just to see what Brendon can take, but it's not until their eyes finally lock that Ryan gets it.

And _gets it_.

He's fucking close, Brendon can tell from the pre-come drizzling down his throat, hot and promising; Brendon's forced to dig his nails into his palms behind his back to keep his own climax at bay, but once Ryan finally starts thrusting for real, unrestrained, there's only a few good seconds of reckless abandon before he's shooting hard down Brendon's throat, fingers tight in their grip and his voice wrecked as he cries out, whole body shuddering and stilling in the same shaky breath.

Brendon's eager to have his hands back just for the sake of touching him, and he falls forward, head nestled in Ryan's lap as his palms come to rest around Ryan's hips.

"Fuck," Ryan breathes.

Brendon smiles against his skin. "Pretty much."

"You... Jesus." Ryan gives himself a minute, catching his breath. "Don't get cocky, but you are the _best, ever_."

"Yeah... I know."

Ryan squeezes a bit where his hand is stroking through Brendon's sweat-damp hair. "I said don't get cocky."

Brendon lifts his head, grinning. "Too late."

Ryan smiles fondly, his hand shifting from Brendon's hair to his face. "Hi."

It sounds like _I love you too_.

 

+++

 

"This is a bad, _bad_ idea."

Coming from the man who's been leading bad ideas to fame for the past two decades, it's quite a statement.

Ryan ignores him, straining on tiptoes to whack at the bottom of the tied basketball net until the worn old ball pops out the top and bounces across the dirt driveway before settling into a bed of pine needles.

" _Bad_ idea," Brendon repeats, shaking his head, hands firmly on his hips.

"Why -- " Ryan snaps, voice strained under his efforts to untie the net, "is this such a bad idea?"

"Um, because I played basketball for like, six years until I joined your pussy emo band and lost all sense of masculinity? Because my brothers were all on varsity and they made me practice with them? And, uh, because the one time we played football with Phantom Planet, you asked who the pitcher was?"

One last flick of Ryan's fingers and the net falls open, wrinkled from the knot but functional as ever, and Ryan turns around, eyes in slits and a deadly smirk teasing at his lips.

"You're a dumbass."

"Dumbass who's gonna kick _your_ ass," Brendon smirks back.

"Right." Ryan bends over to pick up the basketball, twirling it on one extended finger with a disconcerting lack of effort. "So when I was thirteen, my dad said I had to play a sport or I couldn't keep my guitar. Not that he ever came to the games, but I ended up on junior varsity and I only quit senior year so I could focus on the band."

Brendon laughs. "So full of shit. You would've told me."

Ryan shrugs. "Didn't have the best memories. The whole team either wanted to beat me up or rape me or both, just 'cause I had a big dick and I could kick their asses even in eyeliner and skinny jeans."

"I -- " And just, Jesus, what? "Fuck, dude, I'm -- serious? I'm sorry."

"Whatever, forget it. Doesn't matter now. All that matters is now, you and me, right here."

Brendon watches the ball hop through the air to the index finger of Ryan's other hand, still spinning like a top. "Uh-huh."

"What?" Ryan saunters forward, grinning wickedly. "Y'scared?"

"Scared you're goin' down, Ross."

"You know I'm always happy to go down on you, baby." Ryan flicks the ball into the air and catches it in his palm, fingers spread wide around its base. "You're gonna eat my dust, Urie. You're gonna fucking _choke_ on it."

Brendon snorts. "Been choking on your ridiculous lyrics for years. Shouldn't be a problem."

Ryan bites his lip. "I've got somethin' better you can choke on."

"Hell yeah."

They share one last grin, merciless and calculating to lock in the competitive spirit, and suddenly Ryan's dribbling across the driveway, rounding up on the net and landing a perfect lay-up, his jeans (Brendon's, too big) sliding low enough on his hips to reveal the initial swell at the top of his ass.

"Fucking asshole!" Brendon shrieks.

"Yeah, wow, I scored, I'm such a dick."

He spins the ball for show and tosses it at Brendon with a laugh, reaching down to peel off his shirt and chuck it on the roof of the car beside Brendon's.

It's entirely possible Brendon's never seen him this cocky in his life.

It's also possible he's never been this turned on in his life, either.

"All right, fine, you want to play? We'll play."

Brendon tries to slip back six or seven years to his own driveway, his brothers towering over him with no mercy. They played rough and dirty, thus so did Brendon, but he starts out safe now as he waits for a scrap of technique to return to him, dribbling safely from side to side as Ryan closes in on him to play defense, the heat radiating from his body as he slides into Brendon's space, too much and too close. Brendon launches straight into performance mode under the pressure, making his way toward the basket and springing up for a jump. The ball's just balancing on the rim when Ryan's hand appears out of nowhere and knocks it away, and when Brendon comes down from the shock, Ryan's hopping from foot to foot far behind him, dribbling rhythmically, his eyes bright with challenge.

Brendon challenges him well enough, scoring a basket for each of Ryan's... five, but hey, he's rusty, and Ryan's in better shape, and seriously, Brendon can keep going here, he's a fucking _archive_ of excuses.

"All right, look, I need some incentive here," Brendon huffs after twenty minutes of humiliation, scratching the back of his neck. "What are we playing till?"

"Till you get too turned on to play anymore."

Brendon rolls his eyes. "And winner gets what?"

"I dunno what I want yet, I'll let you know."

"Asshole!" Brendon says, laughing in disbelief. "You fucking cocky little bitch!"

Ryan's still laughing as Brendon invades his space, and ducks just as Brendon makes a grab for the ball. Not to be outdone a twentieth time, Brendon throws himself forward, grappling for anything he can reach and winds up with his arms tangled around Ryan's waist, Ryan laughing over him between indignant cries of "Foul!" as he aimlessly heaves the ball into the air just to rid himself of the burden. They both freeze, eyes on the net as the ball soars toward it in a graceful arc and swooshes straight through.

"Fuck _yes_!" Ryan yells, pumping his fist in the air as Brendon gasps in flagrant disapproval. "You are so fucking _owned_ , man!"

"Own _this_ ," Brendon says, backing Ryan up against the car and kissing him hard.

Ryan's hands come up around his back almost like he was expecting it, but Brendon doesn't care, just kisses the air right out of their lungs and takes what Ryan gives him, both of them nipping at lips, teeth crashing and tongues at war as salty beads of sweat roll down over their lips and into their open mouths, intensifying the taste. They're both hard when they break apart, panting and lightheaded, Brendon lost in Ryan's blown pupils and puffy red lips, and Ryan pushing up against him for more friction, shameless.

"I think..." Brendon decides, tugging Ryan's lower lip between his teeth, "I deserve a consolation prize."

Ryan smiles against him. "So get upstairs, loser."

 

+++

 

_some people want answers, but i've never really been good at explaining myself_

\- Brendon Urie

 

 

" _Fuck_."

"Yeah."

"Seriously. Like. _Fuck_."

Brendon lets his grin sprawl out over his face, easy and candid as he turns his head to find Ryan in a mirrored pose, flat on his back, limbs sprawled, their forearms overlapping. They're both still panting, trying to find some regulation to their breaths, and Ryan's hair looks like he's been hanging his head out a car window at ninety miles an hour, skin flushed golden and seriously, like legit _glowing_ , all the way from his face down his chest and arms, where a thin sheen of sweat has blossomed over his skin (Brendon's still tickled pink he's actually managed to find the one thing that makes Ryan sweat). Brendon's sorely tempted to make pregnancy jokes, but, one crack at time: "Never told you how much your vocabulary turns me on."

Ryan bites his lip, not too well-fucked and boneless that he still can't reach over and slap Brendon's shoulder. Brendon just laughs, cocky as fuck. This makes up for basketball like no other.

"Guess I actually _fucked your brains out_."

"Jesus, you're a fucking teenager, seriously."

"I hope not. This would be really, really illegal."

Ryan raises an eyebrow. "Like that'd stop you."

"Hell no. I'd totally bone your little jailbait ass."

"Like I'd let you."

"Oh, you would."

Ryan smiles so big Brendon thinks his face might burst. It's a weird image taken literally, and he'd attribute it to weed, only they haven't smoked up all day. Sex owns drugs. Possibly even rock-and-roll.

Still, smoking in general has its merits and he leans over, fishes around under the bed where he'd stashed a pack of Marlboros and a lighter. Normally he'd hide them better, smoke in private, but whatever, Ryan's not allowed to nag now; it's the _afterglow_.

"I -- told you -- to fucking -- _quit_ ," Ryan snaps (and hey, okay, apparently nagging is a _twenty-four-seven allowance_ ), scrambling up to sitting and snatching the cigarette from Brendon's hand just as he starts to light up, smushing the end into a bowl on the night stand and tossing the lighter across the room.

"Wh -- I did! I totally did. Once or twice a week, I swear that's all. Come on, it'd feel so fucking good right now."

But Ryan's all serious business when he looks at Brendon, calculating. "I just. It freaks me out, okay? Weed's one thing, but this shit'll fucking kill you and I can't. I can't lose you."

He doesn't sound bitchy or whiny; there's no nag in his voice, no arbitrary bossiness, just fear, and Brendon's heart does a scary jump-plummet thing. He reaches up, one hand stroking up Ryan's arm, cupping his shoulder, firm. "Okay. Okay, I won't."

Ryan looks resigned, almost guilty as he drops his eyes.

"Hey. Hey. Look at me. You're not gonna lose me, okay? I'm done. No more. Promise."

Ryan nods. "Thanks."

"Come here."

Brendon tugs Ryan back down until he can lean over him, propped on one elbow, look down and run his fingers through Ryan's hair, watching him. Just keeping eye contact, making sure Ryan knows he's here and nowhere else, not going anywhere. Outside the open window, the bugs hum in quiet harmony, and an airy night breeze wafts through the screen, skating over their skin.

Brendon's hand trails down, across Ryan's neck and down his chest. "What was your childhood like?"

Ryan laughs, doubling up the pillow behind his head. "Seriously, this is your pillow talk?"

Brendon pinches him. "What, asshole, you want me to tell you how beautiful you look when you come? You're such a girl." Ryan pinches back, unnecessarily hard. "I dunno, I just. I was always afraid to ask this stuff before... you never volunteered it. But... now we're all, like, naked and stuff, so there's not much left to make me feel intimidated."

Ryan strokes a finger down Brendon's bare chest, tracing circles, then dipping lower to where the edge of the sheet lays low across Brendon's hipbones. "You could've asked me before. What do you want to know?"

Brendon shrugs. "When did your mom leave?"

Ryan takes a breath. "I was six. It was a few months after I met Spence, so he was... right there. Like. Jesus, five years old, but he _got_ it, like, he got how bad it was. I wouldn't have made it without him."

"Did she ever tell you why she left?"

"Not... really. I mean. She said she couldn't deal with my dad. If she really cared, she would've taken me with her. She just gave me bullshit about how she couldn't give me the life I deserved."

"Maybe... she meant it?" Brendon offers.

Ryan shrugs. "It was all bullshit. Like my dad could give me any better."

Brendon's fingers rub absently at Ryan's hip, running lightly up the smooth, taut skin of his side. "Was he already drinking then?"

"Kind of, but... it didn't get really bad till I was about eight. Even then, it was my fault."

" _Ryan_."

"No, I mean. I kept blaming him for my mom leaving, yelling at him and telling him he was the reason she was gone. So he started drinking... a lot."

"Ryan, that doesn't make it your fault -- "

"I know." His voice is sure, like he's heard this a million times and it's been an uphill journey trying to make himself believe it. "I know, I just. Sometimes I think I almost _wanted_ it to be my fault, y'know, just so I could feel like I had some control over the situation. Over... anything. I'm still like that. You know I am."

Brendon runs his fingers up and down Ryan's arm, feeling him shiver. "Did you... I mean. Does it feel that way when we... like. I know it's different with girls, with them it's like... there's default male power, even if it's just socially contrived. With guys, at least when you bottom, it's... I dunno, I just. When we... do this... do you feel like you're... giving up control?"

"God, no, that's -- that's different." A tight line stretches across his forehead as his eyes lock on Brendon's, dark with emphatic sincerity. "I trust you. I..." His head ducks, and Brendon can already tell the words to come are ones that will never leave this room. "I... I like giving up control for you."

"Okay," Brendon says softly, swallowing over the jolt of arousal that surges through him. "But... y'know. Feel free to... take it back whenever you want."

The shift in the air is instant: Brendon feels it shoot through his bones straight from the flash in Ryan's eyes as their gazes lock, reading and asking and answering. It's a statement turned invitation, and Brendon hadn't even realized he'd meant _yes, like that, right now_ until it's out there, blindingly clear that it's what they both want.

Ryan swallows, his voice a tiny ghost of a tone when he asks, "Yeah?"

Slowly, Brendon nods.

Methodical shouldn't feel so fucking hot, shouldn't feel like such a rush, but Ryan seems to know exactly what he's doing and it's turning Brendon on crazy amounts that he himself doesn't. Ryan doesn't hesitate, doesn't falter, just slowly brings his hand to Brendon's lips, two fingers extended and the rest curled into a fist, and presses until Brendon's lips part, sucking them both in.

Brendon could do this for hours, has _fantasized_ about doing this for hours, seriously, just Ryan's fingers, swirling his tongue around them and watching Ryan's face, the way his eyes flutter and that pretty pink mouth drops open. Brendon works them the way he'd work Ryan's dick, and Ryan knows it, can feel it, and Brendon's idly starting to wonder if he could get off just from this when Ryan slides his fingers out with a wet pop and slips them between Brendon's legs, pressing both inside at once.

Brendon tries hard to stay calm; he knows games well enough, and he's not sure what he's allowed to do, if Ryan's going to want him in any specific way, or order him around. He stays neutral, biting his lip against any noise, trying not to buck up into it, but Ryan -- Ryan isn't helping. Ryan is...

"No idea how fucking hot you look like this," he states suddenly, voice low and eerily solid, eyes locked to Brendon's, daring him to look away as he works his fingers, well versed already in finding that perfect spot, brushing over it again and again until Brendon feels himself starting to shake. "You have no idea how many times I've thought about this... lying in my bunk _two fucking feet away from you_..."

A whimper escapes Brendon, and Ryan thrusts his fingers in particularly hard, and okay. Yeah. Brendon's starting to learn the rules here. He bites his lip harder, focusing on silence, on Ryan's voice as his fingers fall back into a rhythm -- only now, suddenly, there's three of them, somehow having escaped Brendon's notice.

"Yeah," Ryan continues, one corner of his mouth quirking, "I jerked off right next to you so many times, thinking about what you'd look like underneath me, writhing and begging me, to give you more, or to stop, you wouldn't even know. Do you have any idea how fucking hard I came thinking about that?"

Brendon squeezes his fists into the sheet, eyes rolled back into his head, and comes.

The game's paused for a breath or two as Ryan stares down at him, his expression the picture of awe; a little cocky, but mostly impressed, until it all washes away, face back to business as their eyes refocus on one another.

Ryan swallows, staring down at the mess pooling across Brendon's stomach. "I didn't say you could come yet."

There's another pause, protracted and frozen as Brendon watches him, a little shocked and already feeling himself to start to harden again just at the words, before Ryan reaches forward and flips him over onto his stomach, fucking _just like that_.

Ryan's body is instantly there, covering his, protecting, as he whispers in Brendon's ear, "What's your safe word?"

"I -- fuck, Jesus, Ryan, you can do whatever you want to me, I'm not gonna stop you -- "

"What's your safe word?"

Brendon cringes, because this isn't a word, this is a confession. "Pianissimo."

Ryan goes suddenly still, and Brendon wishes he didn't know why.

 

 

_"And what does this one mean again?"_

_Ryan points one long finger to the open splay of sheet music atop the keyboard, and Brendon leans in to read. "Ah... it means 'very softly.' Not the softest imaginable, but like... right on the edge, y'know?"_

_Ryan looks at him, shoulder-length hair curtaining his face, and it feels like they're on an edge of their own._

_He tries to make himself look down, but down is where their thighs are pressed together on the bench, at the keyboard in Spencer's basement with Spencer upstairs and everyone asleep but them, here, in the midst of a lesson but they have to be quiet. Not silent... but right on the edge._

_Ryan's eyes look bigger the longer Brendon doesn't look away._

_"It's pretty," Ryan says. "It's... kind of beautiful. The word. It feels gentle. Safe. I dunno. Like..." He looks down at his hands and up at the music, eyes unfocused as they are when he contemplates words, language, their meaning and the meaning behind the meaning, **his** meaning. It's only been a few months, but Brendon doesn't think he'll ever get tired of watching the process. "It feels like intimacy, like vulnerability. If I didn't know what it meant, like if I just heard it... I'd think it meant 'I love you.' Or maybe, like... 'I trust you.'"_

_Brendon stares at him. He doesn't have words. He's in love; there are no words._

_If he did, they would be, **I do... and I do**._

 

 

Finally, Ryan breathes, " _Brendon_ ," and Brendon doesn't think about what it sounds like.

It effectively shifts the game, until it feels like the only objective is to not lose themselves completely. Winner takes all; loser drowns.

He feels Ryan shifting behind him, uncapping the lube and ripping open the condom until he's back, pressed all along Brendon's back, his face nestled into Brendon's neck.

"Hands on the headboard," Ryan whispers. Brendon obeys, curling his fingers around the bars and holding tight. "Don't move unless I say. No noise. No words."

It's a basic, vanilla request, but it’s enough; it's the principle here, not the logistics, and he's still shuddering head to toe just in the effort to keep still. Ryan doesn't fault him for that, just kisses the back of his neck, whispers, "Shh, I've got you," and pushes in, gentle but in one thrust, no stopping.

"God," Brendon pants, and -- fuck. Yeah. This is why, the few times he's done this, he's ended up with a backside so red he could barely sit for days after.

Ryan pulls out at once, which, seriously, _not expecting that_ , and sits back on his heels. "Tell me a secret."

"I -- what?" Brendon cranes his neck around, and Ryan's hand immediately comes up to cup the back of his head and push it down into the pillow.

"Now tell me two."

Jesus. Fucking.

"I -- " Brendon swallows, searching the depths of his brain for something, anything. "I stole twenty bucks from my mom when I was fourteen to buy gay porn at the indie bookshop."

Ryan's sharp exhale almost sounds like a laugh, but it's not. Not now. "The one on Wilder Avenue?"

"The very one."

He can feel Ryan's smile, he swears. "One more."

"I lied about it when she asked."

"'Kay," Ryan whispers, draping himself back over Brendon and lining up, pushing in, but slower, more deliberate, and Brendon bites his lip hard enough to draw blood just to keep quiet.

It's fine for a bit, Ryan doesn't press him or push him, just moves inside him like it's all he ever wants to do in the world. But when his hand reaches up, fingers interlocking with Brendon's on the headboard as he gasps, "I could stay inside you for _days_ ," Brendon's gone, a shaky moan tearing past his lips.

"Fuck," Ryan hisses, slowly pulling out, and Brendon doesn't get it, why he's using a punishment that's equally hard on himself, and Brendon almost cries at being unable to protest, to voice it, when he's been Ryan's voice for this long. "Tell me the first thing you thought when you met me."

Motherfucking _fuck_.

Brendon swallows, harder than before, trying to find his oxygen, his body aching and head reeling from the loss of Ryan inside him. "I thought I was completely, totally fucked."

For a moment there's nothing; Ryan's so still and silent he could've just as easily left the room and Brendon wouldn't know. And then he's back, his body shaking as he comes close and presses inside, and it's sogoodsogoodsogood Brendon can't think anymore, except to focus on behaving, because he doesn't think he can take whatever next level Ryan's got planned.

And he almost manages, just letting Ryan fuck him into a limp, shivering mess, until all Brendon can feel, think, see, taste, dream, is Ryan -- then again, that isn't far off from how he's spent the last six years.

Then Ryan starts to tremble, pressing closer to whisper, "Brendon, Brendon," and it sounds so much like a request that Brendon has to answer, just two syllables, Ryan's name, barely a breath.

Ryan swears a blue streak, stilling for a moment inside him, and Brendon feels the first prickle of tears, wants to say, _don't, forget it, just forget it, please_ ; he's never, ever used his safe word, not once, but now, now, of all fucking times, with all fucking people --

Finally Ryan pulls out, shaking the whole way, but stays draped over Brendon, pressed close, fingers wrapped around both of Brendon's hands still gripping tight to the headboard.

"Tell me," Ryan pants, "why you came here with me."

Brendon closes his eyes, pushing the tears down his face, and whispers, "Pianissimo."

He's only vaguely aware of the "Fuck" and "Shit" and "I'm sorry" and the sound of his name as Ryan pries his fingers from the bars, rolls him over onto his side and spoons him, holding him tight, one hand closing around Brendon's cock and working in a gentle, steady rhythm.

"It's okay. Come on, baby, it's okay, it's okay, you can come."

 

 

When he comes to, seconds later, Ryan's looming over him, eyes flooded with relief just to see Brendon's staring back at him.

"Fuck, fuck, I'm sorry, I'm so fucking -- "

"Hey, hey." Brendon stops him, fingers pressed to Ryan's lips. "It's okay."

"No, it's not, why did you let me do that -- "

"Ryan, _shut up_. Look at me. It's fine." He lets the words linger, lets them sink in as Ryan watches him. "Seriously, it's -- Ryan, it was. I've never. It was amazing, seriously."

Ryan settles a bit against him, but his face holds onto the tension like a life preserver. "I shouldn't have."

"Yes, you should've. Ryan, it was your game, and I trusted you, and now you trust me back because of it. That's what I wanted, I wanted you to take control however you needed, and you did it. We're good. We're fucking good, man, okay?"

Ryan looks at him dubiously, and Brendon knows he's aching to ask why, if Brendon trusted him, he didn't answer, but just gave in.

"You fucking used your safe word," Ryan hisses, defeated. "I fucking made you use your fucking safe word. It's not okay. I didn't -- I just wanted -- I wanted to know how far you'd trust me, and I went too far. I'm sorry, _fuck_."

Brendon sighs. Words aren't his fucking thing; this isn't fair. He doesn't know how to say this, or even what he wants to say.

"It's not... Ryan, you didn't do anything wrong. You trusted me enough to know I'd stop you even though I said I wouldn't, and that... that says a lot. That's _good_. And it wasn't lack of trust that made me stop, it's..." Brendon tries to answer indirectly, eyes skating over the dark shadows of the room. "It was more about not trusting _myself_. Fear is... sometimes, there can still be fear, under the trust."

Brendon's certainly no wordsmith, but Ryan considers it, staring closely. "What are you afraid of?"

Brendon blinks. "Same things you are."

It's a cop-out answer, maybe, but it's perfect. Somehow, there's truth in it, truth Brendon can't identify or even prove, but he knows, intuitively, that it's there. He knows, eventually, the fear will either win over or come crashing down, but they can do this, they can hold out just a little longer, silently plan their strategy until they've figured out how to conquer it, before it conquers them.

Somehow, Brendon knows, in the end, they'll win.

"You trust me, yeah?" Brendon asks, and Ryan nods. "But if I asked why you brought me here, would you tell me?"

Ryan looks down. "I'm... still not..."

"I rest my case."

But Brendon squeezes his hand, and it's good, Ryan squeezes back. They're still okay, for now.

"You were amazing," Ryan tells him.

Brendon smiles. "Dude, that was. Seriously, the most creative, agonizing powerplay like, _ever invented_. Kudos."

Ryan smiles, and it almost looks easy, natural. "Gay porn, huh?"

Brendon grins, and it's a punchline of sorts, a last word. It's over, tonight. _So I guess we're back to us..._

Ryan lies down against him, pulling Brendon close, and they stay like that for a long time, just breathing together, breathing each other in.

After awhile something occurs to Brendon and he asks, "What's yours?"

"My what?"

"Your word."

"Oh." Ryan's silent for a moment, just long enough for Brendon to wonder why. "Aubergine."

He smiles. "Dude, I've been singing your fucking safe word every night on stage for the last four years?"

Ryan smiles back. "Pretty much. Not like I've ever used it, though."

Brendon squeezes him a little tighter, sealing their bodies together. "You won't have to."


	11. Chapter 11

**1 new message from Smith v5.0**  
 _i'm assuming you've stopped answering your phones b/c you finally grew brains (balls?) and got into each others pants. if this is not the case, adn you've been murdered or kidnapped, please kindly let us know. thx._

 

+++

 

**1 new message from The Walkman**  
 _so who tops? we have a bet goign. pls respond. love jon._

Brendon lounges happily across Ryan's bare stomach, still giggling as he listens to Ryan type. He cranes his neck to peer at the screen that Ryan shoves in his face before pressing send:

_spencer's mom tops_

They laugh in each other's faces, passing the joint back and forth and stealing kisses until the phone beeps, and Ryan extends long fingers to flip open the display.

**1 new message from Smith v5.0**  
 _only with Ryan._

 

+++

 

Before it was always an excuse to laugh, bite his lip and close himself in the next room so he could snort giggles without disturbing Ryan as he sat in full lotus, eyes closed, hands resting on his knees with his thumb and middle finger touching.

It's shifted, now, right along with the two of them.

It's terrifying how easy it's been to fall into this intimacy; these unlabeled, unmarked, unacknowledged acts between them that Brendon forgets they aren't anything more than that, the acts. The secrets they share in the dark, skin on skin; the looks that steal into their eyes when they move together, shutting out everything but _this_. It's easy to forget there's still parts of Ryan that Brendon hasn't reached, doesn't get, doesn't know, and might not ever. Parts that Brendon can't fix; that Ryan needs to retreat to in his head; parts that leave him seated alone on the floor in a meditative trance, a single wet line trailing down each cheek.

Brendon aches to cross the room, drop to the floor and pull Ryan into his arms, but Ryan has strict rules not to interrupt him in this state unless he bursts into flames. Brendon's not about to shatter the trust they're fighting so hard to build, and maybe Ryan isn't the only one afraid of loss.

As silently as he can, Brendon closes his fingers around Ryan's paperback copy of _Chakra Meditation_ by some dude with eighteen syllables in his name, and pads softly up to his room.

When Ryan finds him an hour later, Brendon looks up from page twenty-three and asks, "Which one were you focusing on?"

Ryan looks at him a long time, blank, before leaning over, pressing a kiss to Brendon's forehead and leaving the room.

 

+++

 

Brendon goes to sleep spooned and wakes up alone. It's some four sexually active years' worth of familiarity, enough to make his stomach lurch.

It's the first time in weeks Ryan hasn't been by his side (or beneath him, or atop him). He's naked and twisted in the sheet, lube still sticky on the insides of his thighs, the smell of them both everywhere. It's their own smell now, the two of them together, no longer distinguishable on their own. It should be a comfort, all this validation of _them_ ; instead, it only emphasizes Ryan's absence.

Brendon tugs on a pair of Ryan's sweatpants and stumbles his way downstairs. His sleep-bleary eyes catch the clock at the bottom of the steps: nine-thirty, well past yoga time, and Ryan is...

He pulls the curtains back from the narrow window in the entryway; his car's where they left it, the keys on the shelf by the door. Ryan's wallet is beside it, the worn, supple leather overlapping the yellow and black checkered pattern of Brendon's.

He calls out, "Ryan?" softly as he enters the kitchen, but it's clean and empty, no cooking smells hanging in the air or evidence of fire damage.

His heartbeat quickens with every room he crosses until he reaches the music room, door left wide open and sunlight overflowing into the living room. Brendon pokes his head inside, scanning across the space until his eyes land, and he releases the breath he's sure he's been holding since he left the bed.

Ryan's squashed into the ratty old beanbag chair in a corner by one mammoth window, knees to his chest and arms folded against them as his head slumps to the side, having carved out a rounded wedge into the beanbag for support. He looks like a child -- like, an awkward, gangly, five-foot-ten child. But there's nothing peaceful in his tense features, his mouth set into a frown and his brow drawn tight even as he sleeps. Brendon's limbs twitch with the desire to gather him up, carry him to bed, but he can't bear to wake him.

Instead he lets his eyes soak in the chaos of the room: guitars laid out around him, his MacBook Pro still open but asleep at his feet, papers strewn everywhere, some balled up, some loose-leaf, torn from his notebook. It looks like he's been here all night, since Brendon fell asleep at least, and a sinking intuition tells Brendon it's probably the truth.

Brendon knows he shouldn't. It's not -- Ryan always shows him his lyrics, in the end, but having them offered to him and seizing them for himself before they're given are two entirely different things.

Still, even as he thinks it, he's already crouching on the floor, closing his fingers around one crumpled wad of lined paper, unfurling it as quietly as he can and smoothing it out on the old, brown-speckled carpet. He doesn't know what he expects to find, and it's nothing incriminating, nothing epically confessional, but the words make his heart beat harder than Spencer treats his kit, and his breath is short by the fourth line.

_Play out the fairy tale_  
Until the seas run dry  
It's not what I want,  
But it's what I can do 

_(Take your) flute to the beach,_  
Statues of make-believe,  
It's all too easy to confuse  
For a gentler love (but) 

_The only thing that never ends  
Is the love that never happens._

_(The only thing that never ends  
Is the love that never happens.)_

_We're just foam on the waves_  
Seen from a wedding suite window,  
Where "ever after" sounds  
just like "The end." 

There are words crossed out, but nothing significant; notes littering the margins, mostly nonsense, stream-of-consciousness rambling Brendon doesn't understand, but he makes the connection, like a lock finally clicking open, when he squints to read one line at the top, scrawled diagonally across the corner and circled: _Disney version vs.[HCA's](http://hca.gilead.org.il/li_merma.html)?_

The Little Mermaid. Ryan and his fucking fairy tales.

Finally, a lifetime of Disney fanaticism pays off.

But it doesn't feel like much of a payoff -- just a nauseating collision of guilt, fear, confusion, and a blink of hope -- when he reads through a second time, willing himself not to uncover the meaning he so aches to find, but he can't _not_ , not when it's screaming at him from the page like Ryan meant for this to happen, like Ryan wrote it for him -- _for_ him -- to see, play, sing. To _hear_.

To have and to hold.

_from a wedding suite window..._

One room and two minutes later, mat spread beneath him in the wide, sprawling patch of living room sun, it's the first time Brendon's actually done this out of _need_.

The oxygen races through his veins as he flows through the postures from memory, sliding through one sun salutation after another. He stretches out in down-dog a final time, his warm-up complete, and is just tensing his muscles for the next pose when fingertips ghost across his hip, skipping over the top of his sweatpants until they reach skin.

Brendon feels his body both freeze and relax into the touch at once, loose from the stretches but suddenly taut with anticipation as Ryan's fingers drag over his skin, up his side and across his back, down over the curve of his ass before subtly hooking into the waistband and slipping the sweatpants off his hips and down his legs, slow enough that Brendon can feel the sun on every new inch of skin.

His legs give and he drops to his knees with a shudder, Ryan closing in around him until he's draped over Brendon's back, hands wandering everywhere and his face pressed between Brendon's shoulderblades, inhaling deep, and Brendon can feel himself to start to harden even before any fingers have made it there. He closes his eyes, rests his head on his folded arms and breathes, giving himself over.

Ryan presses closer, arms coming to wrap protectively around Brendon's chest before he whispers, "I don't ever want to stop touching you."

Brendon trembles head to toe at the words themselves, but it's not... they don't sound as they should. They sound pained, almost guilty, pulled from his vocal chords without his permission, unwanted, having resided there too long to remain. Even if Brendon knew what to say, how to ask, the distraction is too strong as Ryan gently rolls him over, kissing him deeply before crawling down his body and wrapping warm, wet lips around the head of Brendon's cock.

It's too early for earth-shattering reactions or pornographic vocals, but a series of tiny, choked little noises stir in the back of Brendon's throat as Ryan works his mouth with a hand around the base, gradually taking him deeper but with no rush, no agenda; just pleasure, drawn out as long as they both can stand it. One of Brendon's hands weaves into Ryan's crazy, tangled curls, massaging softly, his other fingers digging against the carpet in vain. Ryan finds his free hand with his own, fingers prying Brendon's from their grip on the floor until they relax, twining together with Ryan's, interlocking and releasing until just the simple intimacy of the touch has Brendon balancing on the edge.

He risks a glance down to find Ryan watching him intensely, unblinking, his face shadowed behind the patch of sun that cuts off right above Brendon's waist. It's a strange contrast, the blinding bright of his own skin in the light coupled with Ryan's shaded complexion, eyes darkened in more than metaphor.

Ryan knows when he's close now, knows when he should pull away if he wants, but he never does, just sucks him through it with a desperate little hum vibrating through his lips. He doesn't choke anymore when Brendon spills down his throat, just swallows around him until Brendon's given him everything he has.

"Come here," Brendon pants, limp arms gesturing aimlessly. Ryan swipes the back of his hand across his mouth, his movements strangely hesitant as he climbs back up Brendon's body to settle under his arm, tucked against Brendon's side with one arm draped across his chest. "Hey," Brendon whispers, tipping Ryan's face to lap at a lingering white bead on the corner of his lip, before licking his way into Ryan's mouth, following the taste.

Brendon likes it better like this, with Ryan's face bright and golden to match his own, the sun forcing their eyes shut, leaving only their bodies to speak for them as their mouths move together, lazy and slow.

After a few moments Ryan abruptly pulls back, tucking his head into Brendon's neck. They lie there until the patch of sun starts to creep up their bodies, higher and higher and smaller until it's past them completely, abandoning them to the room's cool shadows.

Ryan shivers.

 

+++

 

"Let's go out."

It's with remarkable effort that Brendon tears himself away from the computer screen, Shane and Zack both competing to kick his ass as he pauses the online game, grateful for the opportunity to breathe again. There's only so much defeat he can take in one afternoon.

"Where?" he asks before his eyes have caught up with the situation, and he blinks, taking it in. Ryan's all dolled up (whatever, it _fits_ , and it's not like Brendon would ever say it to Ryan's face if he wants to keep any of his teeth), straight-legged honest-to-god boy jeans and a white button-down Brendon hasn't seen in years, just the acceptable side of frilly. The front of his hair's wet from washing his face at the sink, hanging to his chin in dark curls, and the top two buttons of his shirt hang open, sleeves rolled up to reveal a tight leather wrist cuff and the omnipresent bracelets.

Brendon could seriously _eat him_.

He swallows the moisture building in his mouth at the sight. "Um. Yeah. Where?"

"That place we like. I don't wanna cook, they have the best spaghetti ever, and I'm going stir crazy."

His voice is determined and confident in a way Brendon hasn't seen in a long time, long enough to wonder if it's even real. "Um. You sure? I mean... with our sixty-year-old fangirl and all?"

Ryan shrugs, but his eyes skip away to the wall. "Whatever. I don't mind."

Brendon thinks briefly of the _Aladdin_ scene when the genie morphs into a bee and screams "Mayday!" in Aladdin's ear. This feels kind of like that. Still, it's Brendon; curiosity trumps apprehension damn near every time.

He smiles. "I'm driving."

It's the first time he's driven his car in almost a month, and it feels damn good. He shoves the windows down all the way, ignores Ryan's complaints about his hair, and turns up The Rolling Stones loud enough to wake the dead. After awhile Ryan surrenders, smiling secretly down at his lap when Brendon's hand lands on his thigh and stays there.

It's close to dark when they pull up, but the place is overrun with cars, and it's only then Brendon remembers it's Saturday night. It's been nice, losing track of days, feeling them bleed into one another with no commitments, no schedules, no agendas, and the reality jolt is a little disheartening when he remembers they've only got a few days left before they're thrown back into it for good.

But now is now and tonight is tonight, and the food smells just as good when Ruth leads them to their table -- _their_ table now, as she's allegedly deemed it -- and takes off with their orders, no gushing commentary but for her twinkling smile. So far, so good.

Ryan seems better, relaxed and content as they sit in peaceful silence, listening absently to the sounds of silverware clinking, a dozen conversations going on around them, quiet but idly comfortable, like the bugs at night from their window -- _their_ window, in _their_ room. Even if he knows it's tenuous, even if the labels are only in his head, the idea of a communalism between them makes him happy, and dangerously hopeful.

He spends the first ten minutes constructing an elaborate work of architecture with the little creamer containers until his sixth sense kicks in and he looks up to find Ryan watching him -- just him, not his construction -- a tiny smile playing at his lips, eyes beaming affection and something that makes Brendon's cock offer a promising twitch.

"You look fucking gorgeous, you know that?"

Ryan's eyes snap out of it enough to widen as he ducks his head against the blush, but there's no mistaking the way his smile widens. Underneath the table, far enough that no one would see, his foot brushes against Brendon's and stays there.

"Look at me," Brendon says softly, his smile indecently wide as Ryan looks up. "Don't go all bashful on me. I mean it."

Ryan smiles back, clearly lost, because it's the smile Brendon's only ever seen in bed, and there's no way to describe the process when Ryan's pupils go wide and glassy, other than motherfucking _moony-eyed_.

"Oh, goodness," Ruth coos as she appears out of thin air, setting their plates in front of them and shattering the moment into a million pieces. "You boys just melt my heart. It's so obvious when two people are in love, you know? It's just in their eyes, and there's nothing they can do to hide it."

Brendon doesn't see the smile for the rest of the night.

Ryan's posture is stiff and forced as they drive home, and Brendon's torn between adding music to drown out the tension or leaving the silence open, should Ryan want to say anything.

He drives in heavy silence, one hand on the wheel and one murderously tight on the gear shift, and Ryan doesn't look away from the window. Brendon catches Ryan's reflection in the glass when he looks over, heartbreaking, before Ryan catches on, rolling down his window until all Brendon sees is the wind whipping through darkness.

 

+++

 

Ryan announces he's taking a shower as soon as they're through the door, before Brendon's even located the light switch. He doesn't ask for company, and Brendon watches him climb the stairs, a thousand words caught in his throat.

It's near midnight when Brendon realizes he's been hunched over his guitar inside the black-windowed walls of the music room for over an hour, scratching out variations of the same two lines on the same piece of paper, front and back, until the sheet started to rip.

He feels Ryan's presence, and when he looks up, Ryan looks normal. He's still dressed, hasn't showered, but judging by the even skin tone around his eyes, he hasn't been subjected to any other moisture, either. He swallows hard and slumps into the doorframe, staring down at Brendon's guitar, at the sheet of paper too far away to read.

"You going to bed?"

The phrasing isn't even subtly telling; _going_ , not _coming_ , and Brendon doesn't know how else to read it but with crushing disappointment.

He looks down. "Um. Yeah. In a bit."

There's a long pause, and then, "Don't be too long, okay?"

Something's different in Ryan's eyes when he looks up, and one of Ryan's hands has lifted to the triangle of skin at the top of his shirt, where the material falls open.

Brendon gulps. "I'll be up in a minute."

Ryan doesn't look pleased or disappointed or fucking _anything_. He doesn't look at all, just immediately drops his eyes and turns, vanishing from the room.

Ryan's at the dresser in his bedroom when Brendon gets there (a minute narrowed to twenty seconds; Brendon isn't an _idiot_ ), staring intently into the wide mirror behind all their bottles of hair product, aftershave, deodorant, and other toiletries. His hands are just reaching the first fastened button on his shirt, the gesture darkly arousing under the desk lamp's low, understated glow. He stops when he sees Brendon in the doorway, watching him through the reflection.

Brendon crosses the room, eyes on Ryan's in the mirror the whole time as he slowly presses up against his back, reaching around to close his hands over Ryan's.

"Let me," he whispers.

Slowly, evenly he starts to pop the buttons, one by one, until the shirt is open and his hands can roam free underneath. Ryan so looks like he wants to melt into it, slump back into Brendon's chest, but he stays upright, their eyes locked in focus in the reflection. Somehow, it's easier, facing each other without facing each other.

"What is this?" Brendon asks in a breathy rush before his brain-to-mouth filter can activate.

"I don't know," Ryan sighs, his voice a wreck as his posture crumbles and his head hangs down to his chest. "I don't, Brendon, I don't, fuck, I'm sorry, I don't _know_ , I don't -- "

Limp and loose, he lets Brendon turn him around until they're face to face, but he won't look up, just keeps shaking his head, his voice rougher by the second.

"I don't know, B, I'm sorry, I'm -- I'm trying, I'm _trying_ but I don't _know_ and i just -- I just -- "

"Okay." Brendon reaches up, cups Ryan's face in both of his hands. "Okay. Okay."

Ryan kisses him.

More like he just sinks into him and their mouths get in the way, but they find their way to kissing soon enough -- deep, desperately searching kisses that steal their breath and their hearts and redeposit them in each other. It's still slow, despite the desperation, Brendon gently pushing Ryan's shirt off his shoulders and kissing along the revealed skin as Ryan fumbles with the buttons on Brendon's. It's awhile before they get to their jeans, spending long minutes pressing chest to chest and rubbing up against one another, one of Brendon's legs between Ryan's as he pins him to the dresser, arms solid and safe around him as Ryan's nails drag teasingly down Brendon's back.

Eventually Ryan hops onto the dresser, just at the perfect level to wrap his legs around Brendon and drag him closer, close enough for them to start work on their jeans as bottles topple over around them, forgotten. He gets Brendon's off with little work, but in this position, Brendon's resigned to rubbing at Ryan through his jeans, palming him warm and sure. It's not enough for either of them, and it's not long before Brendon simply hoists Ryan into his arms, never breaking their kiss, and carries him to the bed, kicking his jeans off in the process and depositing Ryan onto the mattress before climbing on top of him and making short work of his pants.

The sudden bare press of endless skin seems to ignite something in Ryan, flipping what appeared to be soft desire into sharp need, his kisses hungry and bruising, arms wrapping octopus-like around Brendon just to hold him down, not trusting the solid, promising warmth of his body. Brendon takes it in stride, trying to slow the kisses, gently regulate them into something manageable, until Ryan gives up and pulls back, hands in Brendon's hair, and whispers, "Please."

Brendon kisses him, light and sweet, rubbing his hand over Ryan's hip. "What? Anything, tell me."

"Need you. Inside. Please."

It's the first time he hasn't just panted _Fuck me_ , and Brendon doesn't know how to reconcile the words' desperate vulnerability with the fear blazing from Ryan's eyes. He does the only thing he can imagine doing and reaches across the bed to the nightstand, tugging open the little drawer and quickly rustling around for the condoms, searching by touch. Ryan's no help at all, leaning up to suck sweet little marks along Brendon's neck, his hips grinding up in a languid, aching rhythm, nails digging into Brendon's back just to hold himself up, and Brendon can't _think_.

"Hang on," he pants, scrambling reluctantly to one side of the bed to yank the drawer out completely, tossing crumpled receipts and coins and random items to the floor in his search. He unearths the bottle of lube, tosses it in the center of the bed, but the drawer's as empty as the condom box he finally holds in his hands by the time he looks back at Ryan, eyes wide. "...We're out."

"Whatever, who cares," Ryan shakes his head, face flushed from where he's seated halfway up on his elbows, his abdomen taut under the labored breathing and heavy tension coiled throughout his body.

Brendon stares at the box, back up at Ryan, and blinks. "I..."

Ryan rolls his eyes. "Dude, I've been swallowing your spunk every day for the past week, so unless you're worried about knocking me up, fuck it. We're both clean."

Brendon shakes his head, staring down at the thin, hollow cardboard in his hands. "It's not. It's not... that."

"Then what?"

"It's just." He shakes his head, more forcefully, tossing the box to the ground. "Nothing. It's stupid. Come on."

He spreads himself out over Ryan, leaning in to kiss him when Ryan stops him, pulling back. "It's not stupid. What?"

Brendon swallows hard, and it's disconcerting how the thoughts that have settled into his brain for years, thoughts he's resigned himself to, that he's come to accept and validate after years of reluctance, immediately sound ridiculous in his head, stupid and pointless and fucking embarrassing now that they're to be voiced.

"It's fucking _stupid_ ," Brendon hisses, pulling back to sit cross-legged beside him, shoulders slumped low. "It's just. I've never done it."

Ryan's brow creases in confusion. "Not even with Shane?"

Brendon shakes his head. See, it's _stupid_ , because of course, why wouldn't he, with Shane. "It's. Like. All the years I've spent dealing with my hang-ups, you know, with religion and LDS and everything... sexuality's been the hardest to, like, get past, I guess. I mean, I gave up on the whole male-female-marriage-virginity-loss thing a long time ago, but... on some level I still clung to some part of the... I don't know, the fantasy? The ideal? I dunno, I just... kind of imagined... _this_ would be something I'd be doing with... y'know. The guy I marry. On. The night we get married. So. There. Told you it was stupid."

He looks up, and Ryan's eyes are already set to his, frozen and unblinking. Ryan grabs one of his hands, foiling Brendon's plan to bury his face pitifully in his palms, and squeezes until Brendon looks back at him. "It's _not_. It's fine, it's okay, we don't have to -- we can just -- "

"No." Brendon doesn't know how he's managing eye contact, or how his mouth is still working despite the crystal clear instructions he's given his brain to cease transmission. "I _want_ to."

He hears the words as if he's in another body, with another set of ears, as his brain goes into 911 mode trying to hear the words in a way that _doesn't sound like a motherfucking marriage proposal_ , and he can't, he fucking can't, and Ryan's eyes, his whole face, look like a foreign fucking language, unreadable no matter the effort.

He's still waiting for Ryan to bolt when Ryan whispers, "Okay."

Brendon stares, because he has no idea what to say to that, how to even _begin_ to respond to what starts up in his head as Ryan twists around until they are on their knees in front of one another and takes Brendon's face in his hands. And... oh. _Oh._

Ryan kisses him, and Brendon's head spins. There are pictures in his head that he thought he had banished years ago. Forgotten fantasies about this, and _them_ and white sheets in a king-size hotel bed. Unbidden, his fingers come up to tangle in Ryan's hair, pulling him closer before lowering them both into the pillows.

Ryan lifts a leg, hooks it around Brendon's lower back, and Brendon's fucking _shaking_ with how badly he wants to just let go and let the pictures in his head take over completely, grabbing his chance while he still has it.

He pushes himself up, shifts to the side and runs a hand down Ryan's body. There is no candlelight outside of his head, but Ryan's skin still looks smooth and golden somehow, and Brendon can't resist moving his fingers over it, again and again.

”You're so beautiful.”

He bites his lip as soon as the words are out. Tries to be grateful for the fact that at least it wasn't anything worse. Ryan looks up at him, eyes nearly black with some mix of fear and arousal, and Brendon can see him swallow hard before parting his lips.

”Go for it.”

Brendon falters, breath hitching in his throat. Ryan manages a trembling smile, which only makes the tension build higher, because _shit,_ this should be just like any other time, but the look in Ryan's eyes and the pictures in Brendon's mind keep trying to morph it into something else. Something Brendon doesn't want to name because he only has one word to describe it.

He lowers himself down on top of Ryan and tries not to think as he starts kissing and stroking his way down his body. Words keep trying to escape his throat, so he presses his lips more firmly against Ryan's skin, doing everything he can to keep the confessions trapped inside his head.

”Brendon.”

Brendon stops in his tracks, mouth hovering just above Ryan's hipbone. _Too late. Too much._ He takes a deep breath, trying to pull himself together enough to be able to pull away when Ryan asks him. Images of Ryan melting into the mattress, arching into him and lacing their fingers tightly together flood his mind, and he squeezes his eyes as tightly shut as he can, pushing the fantasies back.

”Brendon, let go.”

The words are nearly inaudible, but they are enough. The tension snaps, and Brendon feels himself begin to fall, real and imagined mixing together faster than he's able to pull the sensations apart.

_Oh god._

He tries to keep himself above water as he tongues his way up Ryan's thighs, as he spreads the long legs and guides one to rest over his shoulder. He moves in closer, kissing, tasting, giving in to the fantasies spinning in his head with a broken moan. Ryan cries out above him, and Brendon fucking _melts_.

He tries to keep the words inside, but they’re surging up too fast, and in the end, he has only enough control left to settle for twisting them, morphing them into less dangerous versions of themselves as they slip past his lips. He lets his hands make up for the difference, touching and pressing and stroking until Ryan is panting above him, barely holding on himself.

Brendon fumbles with the lube. The cap won't open. He drops it twice, feeling like the world's most pathetic excuse for a human being until Ryan pulls him down with a soft ”Hey,” and holds him there, kissing him slow and almost sweetly while he gets the bottle open with his other hand.

”Lift your hips.”

Brendon does, balancing himself on his forearms to keep the contact between their mouths as Ryan moves his hands down and starts stroking him, slicking Brendon up before putting an unsteady hand on his hip, guiding him back down.

Ryan nods, once, and that's it, he's ready, and they're _doing_ this, and this shouldn't be anything, _isn't_ anything more than what they've been doing all week minus a meaningless layer of latex. It doesn't mean anything, doesn't have to and can't, but Brendon's still forced to catch his breath, resting his head against Ryan's chest for a moment to steady himself, Ryan's hands gentle in his hair and sweeping over his back, until Brendon realizes it's not one heartbeat but two pounding in his ears, rapid and matching.

"Go slow," Ryan tells him, their foreheads pressed together as Brendon lines up. Brendon doesn't have to ask him why, and suddenly it doesn't matter that Brendon's lost his words, because Ryan has them, and he'll keep them safe.

People say it's good, better, worth it, but people are motherfucking _idiots_ because "good" doesn't come close. Brendon hadn't even expected to feel much of a difference, but he's barely all the way inside before he's biting hard at the pulse point on Ryan's neck just to ensure this lasts past eight seconds.

Ryan gasps, " _Fuck_ ," and that about covers it.

He starts to move, and it's too hot, too slick and too overwhelming. Slow is easier said than done; they've tried it before and it's barely minutes before they’ll start crumbling in each other's arms, rhythm rising and crashing down around them until they're a sweaty, writhing pile of limbs, but this. This isn't that.

This is the feeling of Ryan, actually _Ryan_ tight around him, pulling him deeper, breath sharp on every thrust; this is Ryan panting into the curve of his neck, arms and legs weaved tight around Brendon's body until Brendon's nearly holding them both up. And it's so fucking hot he almost can't believe it. The heat burns through every single wall he's put up in his mind, letting everything inside him just pour out with no consideration for what should be said, and what definitely shouldn't.

_I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I --_

The words keep spinning inside him, and he mouths them against Ryan's neck, against his collarbone, presses them into kisses and pushing them deep inside Ryan's body with his hips. And Ryan fucking answers. Not out loud—never out loud—but with fingers pressing into Brendon's spine and legs wrapping around him; with eyes that refuse to look away even when it all becomes too much; with lips that accept each and every one of Brendon's escaped confessions and come back, searching for more.

_Love._

It shouldn't feel like such a shock, because on some level, Brendon has _known_ that that was what they had, have maybe always had. But there's a difference between knowing and _knowing_ , and feeling Ryan against him now, etching the unspoken declaration into Brendon's shoulder with his teeth is nothing short of mind-shattering.

_There could be nothing after this._

The realization hits him hard and sends him reeling. Not only _love_ but _forever_ , and it's more than he's bargained for, and it's scary as shit, because if he falls now, and Ryan fails to catch him, he's not sure where that will leave them, if they'll ever be able to get up again.

_Place your bets._

On impulse, he grabs Ryan's wrists and pins them above their heads, stroking the pulse points firmly with his thumbs, thrusting harder and faster when Ryan arches against him, mouth opening in a silent scream. Warm liquid spills between them, and _holy fuck_ , Brendon can't, he -- Ryan's _clenching_ , and it's not like before, and it's nothing like the fantasies, but somehow _so much more_ and _better_ and _God!_ , he can't even --

It's a near blackout and a full minute before Brendon retroactively starts to register the details: the perfect, slippery wet slide of his thrusts as he'd spilled inside; Ryan's surprised, shaking gasp as he'd felt it, pulling Brendon impossibly closer.

”God, I love you so much.”

The words fall from his lips so easily, like they've been said a million times, and maybe they have, and the two of them just didn't notice.

Ryan's eyes are glued to his, wide and bright, and Brendon kisses him again before he finally pulls out, using his discarded t-shirt to clean them up. He shifts his weight to settle on his side, pulling at Ryan until he rolls with him, face to face.

"...Ryan?"

Ryan finally blinks, heavily, over and over like Brendon's just called him out of a trance. Brendon's braced himself for anything now, from the obvious _I'm sorry, I just..._ to the impossible _I love you too_ , but leave it to Ryan to reinvent unpredictable.

He breathes a few times, even and deep, and swallows, eyes still on Brendon's. "What were you reading in my book?"

Brendon blinks. "I. What? I don't know. The first couple chapters. Energy centers, colors, I don't..."

"Did you read anything about the sixth chakra? The third eye?"

"I think... a little?"

Despite the drastic change in course, Ryan seems more himself than ever, breath finally balanced between meditation-slow and hyperventilation, his eyes blinking at normal intervals as he chews on his lip, the way he always does under intense focus; and his eyes. His eyes bear the omnipresent shade of fear, a wall to which Brendon's so accustomed he scarcely notices it anymore -- until the past week, noticeable only by its absence.

"It's geared toward... awareness," Ryan starts cautiously, concentration narrowed to choosing his words. "It deals with self-perception, self-mastery, intuition... When you meditate on it long enough, you can reach these... points of clarity."

"Like... enlightenment?"

"Kind of, but less... abstract? Some people say when you achieve one of those moments, something... happens. This... blinding flash of white light, brighter than the sun."

Brendon watches him, waits for Ryan to turn to him with the punchline, because despite Brendon's suspicions, nothing compares to Ryan's face when he finally looks at him, eyes dark with a thousand secrets.

"Bren, I _saw_ it."

Brendon blinks. "When?"

Ryan's eyes drop again, suddenly bashful. "Um. Just now."

Brendon isn't so absorbed that snark can't seep through, but he wagers throwing out rhetoric like, _So, my dick made you reach nirvana?_ might be a guaranteed mood killer.

He blinks again, trying to break through whatever wall Ryan's currently built, only to realize he's battling an imaginary enemy: the foreign look in Ryan's eyes is nothing but the complete _lack_ of barriers, and suddenly, Brendon can't breathe.

"What was it like?"

Ryan's eyes shift, tensing, until he just looks sad -- small and broken, emptied of all light. "It was like... for that moment... everything made sense."

"That's... Ryan, that's _good_."

Ryan rolls onto his back, staring up at the skylight, lips pressed into a tight, distrusting line. "It's too easy."

Brendon holds himself still for a moment, hesitant to put any more contact between their bodies when it's clear Ryan's already pulling away. But he risks it, slow, pressing forward against Ryan's side until he moves for Brendon to curl into his chest, an arm wrapped securely around Brendon's shoulders.

He spreads his palm over Ryan's heart, willing his own to match the beat. "Maybe you're just making it too hard."

 

+++

 

It always seems eerily unfair, looking back on a day that ends in disaster and remembering how innocently it had started, how if only one moment had changed, all the ones following would've changed with it. Crisis averted.

Despite Ryan's lifelong commitment to crisis, it's hard to predict disaster when Brendon wakes up with Ryan propped on his elbow and staring down at him, soft but with all the intensity Brendon remembers from the dark, hours before. It's deeper in the morning light, crisper and sharper, and while sleep may've softened Ryan's features, the fear embedded in them has tightened, coiled into the tense lines of his jaw and brow.

Brendon blinks through the light, adjusting. "Hi."

"Hi."

Before he can lean in to kiss him, Ryan squeezes his hand under the sheet and drags himself out of bed, pulling on his abandoned jeans over bare skin, the denim hanging extra low without the added layer of underwear. Brendon's so sleepily absorbed in the dip at the base of Ryan's spine, the artsy jut of his hipbones as he turns to wriggle into a t-shirt, that Brendon barely notices where he's headed until Ryan stops at the door, one hand gripping the frame to keep himself inside the room that extra second, and says, "I'll make breakfast."

Brendon stares up at the skylight for a long time, like the answers are etched into the lines of sunlight, until he remembers he's not sure of the question.

Ryan's typing away at his laptop on the floor, legs crossed, when Brendon finds him, breakfast apparently having been postponed in lieu of emails. Neither of them have checked any of their accounts in close to a week, most of it lately being boring crap from the label or Crush about the upcoming tour and related publicity, and Brendon's been holding onto the hope that if he ignores the messages long enough, eventually cyberspace will just eat them.

He passes Ryan's hunched form on his way to the kitchen, letting his hand stroke briefly over the top of Ryan's head, before his bare feet meet the cold tile flooring and he starts fishing for clean dishes.

The typing stops after a minute, and Brendon can hear a few more intermittent clicks of the mouse, before silence descends fully; oddly, more distracting than the absent white noise it's followed.

"Brendon."

Brendon won't ever remember quite the way his name sounded, or the moments that elapsed as he padded back into the living room to crouch down beside Ryan. He won't remember the words of the email, only the tension radiating from Ryan's body beside him and the swirl of dread pooling low in his stomach and rising, rising.

Displayed across the screen is a message from Pete, addressed to both of them, the subject line boasting an ironic _dont freak out_. The body of the message contains nothing but a linked URL and, beneath it, the words, _figure u'd see sooner or later, dont sweat it. just remember my peen's online till the apocalypse. ps. congrats lovers_

It's possibly the least comforting warning Brendon's ever read in his life.

Ryan clicks the link with one long, tense finger and waits as Safari drags them over to FBR Trash, a name Brendon will forever associate with coffee tables, premature ejaculation, and in the words of Jafar, abject humiliation. He doesn't know what he's expecting but it's not this: the all-caps headline of "RIGHT ALL ALONG, MOTHERFUCKERS!!!!!!!!!" followed by an embedded YouTube clip, the opening screencap showing the two of them in pajama pants, Ryan behind his guitar and Brendon at the piano in his too-tight Freddie Mercury tee. A handful of screencaps form a line beneath the video, freeze-framing all their performance's most intimate moments: playing in each other's faces, smiling; the few seconds Ryan had sprawled out beside Brendon at the piano, straddling the bench in a Brendon-esque obliteration of personal space.

It gets worse (better?). Below those, shots from a street corner, the camera forced past the glare of a restaurant window to capture two figures seated inside in front of matching plates of veggie burgers, their hands joined across the table, eyes on one another and smiles beaming, intimate, oblivious. Unmistakable.

Ryan scrolls quickly past the capslocked commentaries and miles of exclamation marks regarding their “cabin honeymoon” as it's been labeled Internet-wide, down into the first of thirty-eight pages of comments. He's going too fast for Brendon to catch much of anything besides the occasional "OMFGGGGG!!!!!!" or "I KNEW IT!!!!!!!!" or "FINALLY!!!!!!!!!!!!!" or a rabid, spastic keymash. Brendon can only roll his eyes so much, considering the sentiments largely echo his own, but Ryan's reaction is a little more...

_More._

"Ryan..."

It's meant to be soothing but it sounds like a warning even to Brendon's ears, a _Don't freak out, remember?_ and everything snaps. Ryan doesn't respond well to orders under stress, never has, and he slams the laptop shut, shoving it across the floor and scrambling to his feet.

Brendon's close behind, pulling himself up and stepping forward to where Ryan's staring down at the laptop with betrayal in his eyes, chest heaving with anxiety.

"...Ryan."

He reaches out, fingertips scarcely brushing Ryan's arm before Ryan jerks away, stepping back out of reach. Brendon thinks of arching backs and whispered pleas, and this, this can't be happening, it _can't_.

"What do you want?" Ryan asks. It's a moment before he can look up, belatedly directing the words at Brendon with flashing eyes, demanding answers. "What do you want, Brendon? What is it? What the fuck do you want from this?"

The words _Too much_ are so, so close on his tongue, and it's no easier to swallow them down than it was last night. But he does, fueled by fear; he pushes them back, twists them and transforms them into ugly lies until all that comes out is, "You don’t know?"

It's, most obviously, not a suitable answer, and Ryan huffs his disapproval, is halfway to the staircase when Brendon slips into emergency mode, where the words come unbidden, prompted by last-resort desperation.

"I read your lyrics."

Ryan stops, one hand on the railing, and turns around, slow and doubtful, eyes penetrating until Brendon wonders why Ryan ever chose him as his voice, why he has a voice at all, or why he ever dares to use it.

"She dies," Ryan says quietly. "In the real story, in the end. The mermaid dies."

Brendon nods. "I know. That's why Disney reinvented it."

Ryan stares him down, unconvinced, but blank.

Brendon takes a step forward, cautious. "It's your own words, Ryan. _We must reinvent love_. How the fuck can we if you keep running from it?"

Eyes and time itself both freeze, existing only for them in that one moment. Not so much a moment of truth but of a _request_ for truth; for truth to be acknowledged, no longer feared.

Ryan blinks, his eyes finally dropping. "Life's not a fairytale, Brendon."

Brendon watches him go, helpless, until there's only dark space where the stairs disappear into the second floor. He hears the faint slam of Ryan's door, the rush of running water, and tries to remember why he's alive.

 

+++

 

It doesn't matter what notes he plays or in what order; they all sound wrong.

He stays there all day until dinnertime, exhausting every instrument he can get his hands on until his whole body aches as much as his head, and even then he only stops to wolf down a box of Wheat Thins and three beers. Ryan hasn't left his room once, but Brendon's heard him at intervals, shuffling around or flushing the toilet, and it's enough to keep him from bounding upstairs in a panic.

It's near sunset by the time he starts to give up, his fingers slipping into his own unfinished melody as they skate listlessly over the keys, eyes closed in memory as he improvises a finish, the last note fading into inaudible reverberations beneath the piano's frame.

"It's beautiful."

Ryan's there like a vision when he looks up, wrenching too recent memories from Brendon's mind, images of blue satin and soft skin, fingers grappling helplessly against the piano, Ryan's mouth searing hot and perfect around him, a night of dizzying firsts and defeated fears.

Ryan doesn't look much different now, only sadder and more clothed. He's still working the age-old pajama pants, but a long-sleeved shirt drapes over his figure, falling off one chiseled shoulder. Brendon doesn't look at him for long, figuring it's about as safe as watching the sun, but instead stares down at the keys as Ryan comes over, leaning against the side of the instrument.

"Brendon..."

"You asked me what I want," Brendon says, slowly and carefully before he looks up. "You never told me what _you_ want."

Ryan swallows, his eyes bold on Brendon's. "I think we should stop."

Brendon stares, shaken. It doesn't register, not yet.

"I think." Ryan forces himself to breathe, deliberate and slow. "I think... we're in over our heads. I think... this could really fuck things up. I think it's best if we just... I mean... it was fucking _amazing_ , but."

"Don't fucking sugarcoat it," Brendon spits, surprised at the words' sharp, bitter taste.

Ryan at least does him the courtesy of eye contact, his face ashen. "Look, I -- I know you think it's because I'm afraid of what people will think, or that I'm ashamed of the whole... gay thing, but it's not that. It's _not_. Bren, I'm. I'm shit at relationships, you know I am, and let's face it, so are you. And relationships in the spotlight always fail, _always_ , there's just too many expectations on us and I just -- Brendon, I almost lost you in California, it was fucking terrifying, I can't... I _can't_... not again."

"Right." Brendon nods curtly, squeezing his hands into shakingly tight fists against his thighs. "So. You're gonna lose me now, instead?"

"I -- no! I'm making sure I _don't_ lose you, ever! I -- Brendon, I need you as a friend more than I need you as a... a lover, or a boyfriend, or even as a frontman. I need you in a way that I _can't lose you_."

And it sounds so good, so rational like that, set into pretty cinematic one-liners like Ryan wants, but that's not what this _is_. This is bullshit, this is fucking... _risk management_ , like there's a formula to it all -- do A and B so C won't happen, but it's fucking insane. Life isn't a formula, and neither is love, and anything worth having is worth the risk.

The words all sound so right in Brendon's head but he can't get them out, can't find a voice for them. All the years he's spent as Ryan's voice, and he's finally lost his own. Any other time he wouldn't care, because Ryan's words are the only ones that ever mattered to him anyway.

"Please, do this for me, I can't -- _please_ ," Ryan breathes, his eyes begging on all the levels words can't. They're speaking with eyes now, and Brendon knows it's only a matter of time before they're left to speak with their bodies or not at all.

"Please," Ryan begs again, stepping forward until his hand is stroking through Brendon's hair, cupping the back of his head, stroking gently until Brendon simply leans forward, his head coming to rest against the soft cotton of Ryan's shirt, his skin warm through the fabric as Ryan rubs his head, a universe of _I'm sorrys_ in his touch. Brendon breathes him in, memorizes it with intent, lets his arms come up to wrap around Ryan's waist, holding onto him in an awkward, clinging embrace, just in case he never --

Just in case.


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Scene intro lyrics are from Panic, Snow Patrol, Empires, and The Killers. Thanks to everyone for all your support/feedback. I learned a lot during this, but the concept of the story has been very simple. It's about love, and the tough decision we must make regarding whether it's enough, whether it will prevail in the end. I've wondered many times throughout the course of writing this, and for awhile, lost faith. I'll let you judge for yourself where I ended up. Thanks for joining me on this journey.
> 
>  **Dedication:** [](http://redorchids.livejournal.com/profile)[**redorchids**](http://redorchids.livejournal.com/) , obviously. Several scenes, half the outline, shameless PWF refs, and all original lyrics are hers, as well as the amazing vid she made for this fic, linked at the end. Thanks also to [](http://unluckykitty.livejournal.com/profile)[**unluckykitty**](http://unluckykitty.livejournal.com/) for the YouTube screenshot photo, and [](http://j-plash.livejournal.com/profile)[**j_plash**](http://j-plash.livejournal.com/) for the ~~bountiful flesh-horn~~ [epic badfic](http://lolab.livejournal.com/100566.html?thread=5496022). <3

**8.**

 

_Come save me from walking off a windowsill  
Or I'll sleep in the rain._

 

 

It's not a series of moments, just one; long and drawn out, stretched into a hollow, numbing silence that presses down on them until Brendon can't breathe. It feels like nothing except their world shattering in slow motion, breaking little bits at a time as they hold each other, frozen. Reality trickles in through the cracks as they stand there, Brendon at the piano with his face pressed to Ryan's cotton-covered stomach and his arms around Ryan's waist, carefully fighting habit not to let them slip any lower. Ryan isn't stiff or withdrawn; he hangs on just as hard, one hand around Brendon's shoulders and the other weaved into his hair, holding him in place. Just outside, a warm, early July wind ripples over the surface of the lake. Birds dart between the trees, singing their way through the comfortable, late afternoon haze. Brendon's eyes start to prickle.

He can feel trembling, but he's not sure which body it's from. Already he's not used to making the distinction, to accepting them as separate; too accustomed to feeling them in sync, scarcely knowing one from the other.

Even for all the cliches, it feels like they're standing on a precipice, in limbo, caught between the time they were and the time they won't be, and he's torn between wanting to drag it out as long as possible, and simply giving in to the inevitable -- ripping clean through. Quick, sharp, like a band-aid.

Ryan saves him from making the decision, pulling back slowly, carefully, waiting for Brendon to move with him so it looks mutual.

Ryan always was too concerned with appearances.

His hands both fall to Brendon's hair somehow as they pull back, wet eyes looking down into Brendon's, empty and unsearching. Brendon's hands are still loose around Ryan's waist, and he lets them fall into his lap, his posture dissolving, Ryan's hands in his hair are the only thing coaxing his head up, keeping their eyes locked.

Brendon's so seriously five seconds from kissing him.

Maybe Ryan senses it, because he lets his hands fall, lets Brendon's head drop forward, chin to chest.

He asks softly, "Do you want me to leave you alone?"

Brendon looks up to read the words behind the words, searching Ryan's eyes until they ring clear through, _I don't, I don't know, please, tell me what to do, I'm floating aimlessly and you're my only direction, my..._

_Don't you remember..._

Brendon blinks up at him, wondering for the first time how many lines were really born in rings of brain-fuzzing smoke, and how many were...

_when I was a bird..._

Ryan stares down at him, pleading for guidance.

 _...and you were a map_.

Brendon says, "I'm hungry."

Ryan nods. It's a lie, and Ryan knows it's a lie. They can't eat now. Brendon doesn't know when he'll be able to eat again. It doesn't matter. It's activity. It's safe. Maybe, just for now, they can pretend this is manageable.

Ryan swallows, eyes darting, uncertain. "You want to make dinner?"

Brendon nods.

They make dinner.

Brendon doesn't know what to make of it. The pots and pans are in the same cupboard; the silverware's in the same drawer. The sun's at the same angle it always is at dinner, falling across half of the same kitchen table Ryan bent him over two nights ago just because Brendon licked a splash of sauce from his finger; started them off hard and fast and dissolved to slow, aching and trembling, Brendon's nails digging deep crevices into the clean white wood of the table as his name stumbled from Ryan's lips.

They move like that now, perfect synchronization, just like before. Anticipating one another's moves as they work, dodging each other around the kitchen, only just avoiding collision (pointless, too late; they've collided and burst into flames, smothered by the ashes). Except for make-out breaks, it's all the same, everything's the same, and Brendon doesn't understand how it can _work_ like that, how everything can just go on like the world makes sense, when it's never made less sense in his whole life.

The balance topples violently into oblivion with the crash of the pan on the tile floor.

Brendon hears Ryan curse, loud and harsh, the syllable deadly in the air as Brendon spins around, eyes dropping to where Ryan's crouched on the floor, crumpled beside the splatter of leftover lasagna smeared across the tiles, the sauce blood-red and chaotic, everywhere.

Brendon's beside him so fast it's like he was never anywhere else, reaching out for the paper towels on the counter and yanking down half the roll.

"I'm sorry," Ryan's practically sobbing. "I'm fucking, I'm sorry -- "

"Dude, Jesus, it's -- hey -- " Brendon reaches out, takes Ryan's face in his hands, and looks him in the eye, no room for miscommunication. "It's okay."

Ryan just stares at him, riding the verge of breakdown tears, until Brendon looks away to spare him the tension and starts mopping up bits of lasagna with a wad of paper towels.

Ryan clambers to his feet, runs a few towels under the faucet, and crawls back to the floor, dabbing at the mess together, wrists brushing too many times not to hurt until they've got most of it back in the pan, ruined but contained; mended maybe more than they'll ever be. Ryan stands up, long and wiry against the sink, and watches as Brendon opens the trash and dumps the tin pan into the bin, the top dropping shut with a soft _whoosh_ over the layer of trash bag.

Ryan's bent over the sink when Brendon turns around, fingers gripping the chrome edging so hard his knuckles are instantly white. Brendon tries for as neutral as he knows, a hand on a shoulder. Ryan tenses under the first touch, but melts before Brendon can jerk away, turning and falling into Brendon's arms, their heads angling on instinct at the last moment so their mouths meet in the middle.

It's the first living molecule of _right_ that Brendon's had since they left the music room, and it takes a few seconds of Ryan's taste before he can rewire his mind to register it as _wrong_. But even by then, Ryan's ahead of him, jerking back and staring hard at Brendon, half anger and half apology. Brendon's arms fall to his sides, limp.

"No," Ryan chokes, but his eyes are unfocused and Brendon can't tell if he's talking to Brendon or to himself. "God damn it, _no_."

It's softer but with stronger conviction, and Ryan's backing up until he hits the wall, eyes stuck to Brendon. He turns automatically until his feet find the right direction and he's fleeing the scene, heading for the stairs. Brendon waits for it, the distant sound of his door shutting, firm and unequivocal. Each time it shuts it feels like another wall shoots up between them, and Brendon's running out of ways to knock them down.

He stands at the sink, listens to the leaky faucet drip in counter-rhythm to his heartbeat. The sun sets over the cabin, and the kitchen slowly gives way to darkness. It gives in too easily, he thinks.

He steps outside, out the glass doors and down the path, past the hammock until his bare feet meet sun-warmed wood.

There's still a few seconds of light left on the dock. He steals them all.

 

+++

 

Once night had set, Brendon had swum out to the tiny patch of island in the center of the lake, spread himself out over the bank with no concern for bugs. It's no bigger than a couple of living rooms, but there's sand and underbrush and a few trees and it feels like escape. They all did it, once upon a time ( _last_ time; no fairy tales ever), side by side, warm skin brushing as they passed the joints back and forth. Shared beers, shared laughs, shared secrets. Some nights (nights after bad days), more; some nights it was Ryan sprawled shirtless on his stomach on the bank (pale in the moonlight, irresistible) because his back was the smoothest and flattest to spread out the lines of coke until he'd bitch about wanting his own fix. Spencer would chuckle at him, low and indulgent, lean in to kiss his shoulder and pretend no one noticed, while Jon would stroke his hair, charm a little more patience into him. Some nights, absinthe and ecstasy until shooting stars and the blinking lights of high-flying planes melted into magic and the bugs sounded more like music than anything they'd written so far. Sometimes just nothing, just the four of them listening to each other breathe until one of them would start to hum a tune.

Brendon misses it, a little; it was easier, always, with the four of them. Always three other people to look out for each one, instead of just the two of them like this, left to fend for themselves or drown in their own drama.

It's late when he gets back inside, and Ryan's just come from the shower, stepping into the upstairs hall for a fresh towel for his hair, despite the one he's got wrapped around his waist below his v-neck tee.

They both stop like they've been caught at something. Brendon doesn't look him up and down, doesn't think about all the gorgeous things beneath the towel, and Ryan doesn't fall apart. They just stand there in the hall, Brendon half on the top step and half on the one below, and watch.

"You going to bed?" Ryan asks.

Brendon nods, stepping forward until he's halfway between his bedroom door and Ryan. There's nothing to do but go to one or the other.

"Me too," Ryan says. He sounds tired, tired as fuck.

Brendon nods again, pointless acknowledgment.

"Well," Ryan mumbles, more a slight noise than a word. "Goodnight."

"Night."

He doesn't move because Ryan doesn't move, and even just the second of hesitation poisons the delicate balance, twisting it to full-on Awkward Moment. They just _look_ at each other, waiting for nothing, because there can be nothing, not anymore.

Ryan ducks forward, one hand on Brendon's hip for a split second as his lips connect with Brendon's cheek, and then it's over, his eyes on the floor as he pads quickly to his own room.

Brendon ensures his door is shut solid behind him before he sinks down against it, a sigh heaving from his lungs.

He strips, climbs into bed, and doesn't cry, not a single tear. Not until he's asleep.

 

+++

 

_If I lay here_  
If I just lay here  
Would you lie with me  
And just forget the world? 

 

 

Brendon dreams.

_He's lying on sand, half-way into the water on a tropical beach somewhere, the location disturbingly similar to other dreams he's had before, but at the same time different. It's sadder somehow, and darker, warm sun replaced by endless stars over his head._

_It's maybe three or four in the morning, and Ryan is with him. They are kissing and can't seem to stop, until Brendon's flat on his back with the water pooling around his shoulders, Ryan on top of him, grinding their hips together, and Brendon doesn't know when they seem to have stripped their clothes off, leaving them in a dizzying state of skin-on-skin. Their hands are busy holding each other in place, desperate the other is going to disappear at any moment: Brendon's are firm on Ryan's hips, moving only to slide up and down his sides, feeling Ryan's body undulate against his, guiding him, until Ryan manages to get ahold of both Brendon's wrists and pin them over his head, pushing them down hard into the wet sand beneath. Brendon swears he hears a gasp drift out to them from camp, but the next moment his brain goes numb as he feels Ryan's other hand slip down between his legs, gently teasing until Brendon's writhing and pushing into it, and Ryan slips one finger inside him, then two, crooks them once, twice, and Brendon's coming all over their stomachs, mixing with the light splash of water between their bodies._

_Ryan drapes himself over Brendon, head to toe, whispers, "Don't stop touching me," as if Brendon ever could._

The scene shifts. Dream Ryan moves against him, molding his back to Brendon's front, and it's even better like that—endless skin sliding together, arms wrapped tight around Ryan chest and Brendon's lips just perfectly placed to lean in and taste the skin of his neck.

He feels as though he's floating, everything just warm and perfect and _right._ Something in the back of his mind registers a pressure on top of his hands--fingers lacing together with his--and it's a bit too much like a memory for comfort. He tries to steer his subconscious back towards the imagined beach--sometimes he can move through his dreams, turning them around themselves and making them play out the way he wants them to--searching for the feeling of warm water and the taste of salt and sand on Ryan's skin.

He can almost feel the smell of coconuts when something else grabs him and pulls him mercilessly towards consciousness.

Magnolia.

 _Ryan_.

He jerks awake, and the pressure on his arms and legs immediately intensifies, holding him down, holding him _to Ryan_ , and he's in the cabin, in his bed, and Ryan is _there,_ all naked skin and heat and pleading desperation.

_No._

Ryan grinds back against him, arms holding on to Brendon's arms, and tangled legs keeping their hips together. His shoulders twist a little, half-turning to press panting kisses into Brendon's hairline, craning his neck to reach lower. Brendon presses his face deeper into Ryan's shoulder, shying away from the touch, trying to get his sleep-heavy limbs under control so that he can move away before he starts wanting too much to be able to.

He bites into Ryan's shoulder, harsh and punishing, and Ryan cries out, accepting the accusation for what it is.

“Please.” Ryan whispers the word against his face, tightening his hold on Brendon's hands and pulling him even closer. “Please, Bren, just for tonight? _Please._ "

Brendon presses his mouth against Ryan's neck, shakes his head desperately, trying to pull his right hand from where Ryan is guiding it down over smooth skin, fingers laced tightly together. Ryan turns a little in his arms, kissing Brendon's shoulder, the top of his chest, his neck, and it's not fucking _fair._ It's not fair to ask this of him with the pain of the last thing Ryan asked like an open wound between them. Ryan presses back against him steadily, shamelessly using everything they've done together in the past week to break down his defences, and all Brendon can think about is how much sharper it will sting when Ryan inevitably pulls away again.

_Life is not a fairy tale._

If it were, things would be easier. Three little words and the happy ending would fall into place, just a question of resolving a few misunderstandings and maybe battle a dragon or two.

But this is not that dream. And Brendon is not the knight in shining armour, and Ryan has already said the words, for years and years, in a hundred different ways, and it hasn't made a fucking bit of difference.

It's not love they lack, and it's not a fucking romcom plot creating the sticky mess they're in. It's just life and fear and too much too fast, and Brendon is helpless against it. Just like he's helpless with Ryan like this, holding on to him like he's the only solid thing in the world, every touch a fervent _I love you_ etched into his skin.

“Please,” Ryan pants against the side of his mouth, so, so close to a kiss that Brendon can practically taste it. “I'm so sorry, but I can't-- _Jesus_ , Bren, please, _please,_ fuck me.”

He presses their joined hands between his legs, guiding them back, pushing two of their intertwined fingers inside, and _fuck_ , he's so wet--all slicked up and prepped and fucking _ready_ for Brendon to just take him.

“Please,” Ryan begs, moving their fingers faster while Brendon bites hard into his lip to stop the words inside him from spilling out. “Just--”

Brendon wrenches their hands away and pushes inside.

It's like going back in time, just erasing the last twenty-four hours from his memory and being there again, sliding into Ryan bareback for the first time and feeling like his heart is going to burst. Ryan meets him, pushing his hips back hard, Brendon's name like a prayer on his lips. They race towards the finish line, fast, fast, stumbling and reeling in each other's arms, and Ryan grabs the back of Brendon's head and holds on for dear life, lips sliding against lips between broken breaths.

_Too fast._

“Don't come,” Brendon chokes, fighting to slow his thrusts until he's reduced to a mess of shaking limbs just rocking into Ryan. “Please. Not yet.”

Ryan moans, nodding, breathing harshly with his face halfway hidden in the pillows to keep himself under control. His chest moves too fast under Brendon's hands, and Brendon drops his face to Ryan's neck, inhaling deeply to fill himself up with whatever he can get, letting his mouth trail the smooth skin of Ryan's throat.

He starts off at next to nothing--just tiny, measured jerks of his hips--a reminder more than anything--and moves into a slow, steady slide from there. It's forever and a split second all in one; they move together like it's the first time and every time--eternity captured in a small ball of spun glass and just as fragile.

“You're everything,” Ryan whispers against the black and white keys on his forearm, and Brendon closes his eyes tightly against the burning sting that overwhelms him with each word. Ryan keeps talking, all stuttering confessions against warm skin--so far gone, he's barely even coherent anymore--and Brendon tries not to think of moonlight and blue satin--of anything that sounds like 'I promise' or 'I've changed my mind', because even though he hears them, he knows that Ryan doesn't. Not in any way that counts.

He comes with Ryan's name on his lips--less revealing than 'I love you', but maybe it doesn't matter when the two sound just the same. Ryan shudders against him, echoing the fall, spilling over Brendon's hand and pressing back for contact until it's impossible to tell where the line goes between them.

They lie there, breathing together, hiding from the world while their bodies cool and the sounds from outside start to filter back in through the open window. Brendon figures he should pull out, roll away, be angry with Ryan for pushing him into this or with himself for nodding along--cry, yell--something; anything other than just curling himself tighter around the body next to him and burying his face against the dark hair. It doesn't make sense for him to cling to Ryan--not when it's Ryan that's making him break--but thinking of letting go is worse, so Brendon clings. His body starts to shake, so he squeezes harder, the emotional equivalent of trying to swim in quicksand and probably just as futile, but it's what he's got, so he'll take it. And when he closes his eyes and breathes in the smell of Ryan--of them, and this, skin mingling together--then at least he knows that it wasn't all a dream.

“Bren,” Ryan starts, hesitating, moving his head and shifting his shoulders as though he means to turn around.

Brendon tightens the grip over Ryan's chest, holds him in place. “Shut the fuck up.”

Ryan goes limp in his arms, shuddering to a stop on a whimper -- and it's strange, giving Brendon a wild illusion of control, when control is the last thing he's had all along.

"Just -- shut up," Brendon pleads, holding him tighter still, his nose buried in the baby-soft hairs at the base of Ryan's neck, refusing to breathe any oxygen that isn't _Ryan_. Ryan doesn't seem to be breathing at all, and Brendon relaxes his hold a little, but even then Ryan's breathing is measured and even, shallow to keep him as still as possible. Like maybe if they don't move, neither will time.

It's too much, _too too too much_ , and Brendon extracts himself from their too-intimate embrace, rolling over to face the opposite wall, on the edge of the too-warm bed that smells too much like love and trust.

_I'd think it meant 'I love you.' Or maybe... 'I trust you.'_

It's another minute before Ryan moves, inching over to where Brendon's compacted himself to a tiny strip of mattress, as far away from Ryan as possible. He feels Ryan's warm fingertips on his shoulder, stroking gently, and he tenses, deliberate and warning. Ryan's hand remains, but stills.

"Can I stay?" he whispers. "Just tonight?"

Brendon actually _bites his lip_ , knowing if he didn't physically force the words back down his throat, he'd end up saying something he'd regret. Or maybe he wouldn't. Maybe he should let it out. It's not like Ryan doesn't deserve it.

Ryan's fingers stroke over his skin once more, tentative. "...Bren?"

"Please," Brendon chokes. "Please, just go."

The lack of protest hurts the most; the way Ryan just freezes in place, and all the horrible, pained expressions Brendon imagines must be crossing his face; the way his fingertips part from Brendon's skin and the mattress dips as he climbs off the bed. Brendon squeezes his eyes shut against the sight as Ryan pads to the door and steps out, closing the door gently behind him.

He keeps his eyes shut, pulling the sheets up high over his head, clamping a spare pillow down over his ear to shut out distractons. If he can sleep, he can dream, and he'll take any escape he can get.

His brain has other plans, though, forcing consciousness upon him for hour after hour, until even the blankets can't keep out the dawn, can't keep out the sound of Ryan shuffling downstairs just after sunrise.

Brendon turns to his window, the too happy splash of sunlight coaxing him towards the day, his face pressed into the half of his pillow that still smells like Ryan.

He flips the pillow over and closes his eyes.

 

+++

 

The coffee smells stale and nauseating to Brendon's warped, sleep-deprived senses when he drags himself downstairs.

Ryan's worse.

He's huddled at the kitchen table, hands wrapped tightly around his steaming mug inches from the nail marks embedded in the wooden surface. His hair's flat and clinging to his face, body covered by Brendon's sweatpants and his Freddie Mercury tee. It actually fits Ryan, except for where it's too short to reach all the way to his middle. Despite it, he looks about half his normal size, curled in on himself with his knees to his chest, socked feet balancing on the edge of the chair.

Brendon's arms ache, whether from the lack of sleep or lack of Ryan, he can't tell.

"Hi," Ryan says.

He stares down at his coffee when Brendon doesn't answer, but Brendon can feel eyes on him as he moves toward the coffee maker, pouring a steaming, blackened dose into the mug Ryan had set out for him. The owner keeps at least two dozen mugs in the cupboards, mostly tourist collectibles or ones with dull corporate logos, but this one displays a giant red heart on one side, and nothing else.

His fingers itch to dump the coffee down the sink, but he can't bring himself to do it.

He sits at the table with his mug, half beside Ryan and half opposite him, not too close but not too far, just plops down where the chair already is and tries not to think about it. He dips his face close to his mug and breathes in deep, chasing the caffeine's bittersweet scent, but all he can smell is Ryan.

It burns his tongue when he swallows the first gulp, but he just keeps taking gulps until his tongue is too numb to notice.

"I'm sorry," Ryan says when Brendon finally sets down his mug. Despite their shallow offer, the words draw their eyes together. "I'm sorry. It won't happen again."

Brendon looks away. There is nothing to say, so he doesn't. He focuses on the bitter taste on his tongue, the burn, hoping it sears away any words he might've spoken. He doesn't want to talk.

"Are we okay?" Ryan asks.

Brendon almost huffs, because, _seriously_? But Ryan looks worse than Brendon feels when he looks up, his face begging, pleading innocence and guilt all in one.

Brendon takes a breath. "Not yet."

Ryan accepts it with calm resignation, nodding down at his mug. He shifts in his chair, rearranges his legs, his knee brushing Brendon's thigh, and Brendon has to force himself not to pull away or lean into it, both options sorely tempting.

The sun's just breaking into the room, bending over the floor and across the table, but it just misses them, somehow skips right over.

"Brendon."

"Yeah."

"Forgive me?"

His own language is all he can speak in now, touch versus Ryan's words. He peels one hand from his mug and slips it under the table, covers Ryan's with it until Ryan turns his palm up, weaving their fingers together, loosely in case Brendon chooses to escape.

He doesn't.

 

+++

 

 _You told me just to breathe  
But you stole my breath_.

 

 

There's no asking or answering when they rise from the kitchen table, a minute or an hour later, Brendon's hand warm and stiff from being wrapped so intricately with Ryan's. There's no question when Ryan walks silently to the living room, but Brendon knows the answer somehow; knows he's invited even before he watches Ryan drag their mats to the floor from where they're rolled up together in a corner of the room.

It feels like instinct now, like stage choreography: Brendon can go through the motions without thinking; just body memory, set hard into his unconscious. He knows it's completely against every last objective of the practice but he can't even scrounge up the energy to let go, to give his mind permission to calm or his body permission to submit, to trust.

Ryan's hands are on him before he remembers it's coming. It's grown so integral to their practice that it would feel stranger without it, the intimacy of both the poses and their relationship having evolved at the same pace, but it would be pointless and stupid to forfeit one just because the other has --

 _Failed_ is the first word to break through all his repression and Brendon feels himself tremble at the thought, the wounds still fresh and gaping between them, but he doesn't flinch, he _doesn't_ , when Ryan wraps around him, fingers trembling in Brendon's and gripping tighter just to still themselves. Ryan's breath is like burning on the tight line of his shoulder, his chest a blinding sheet of fire where it's molded to Brendon's bare back, their hips aligned and locked like it's the only thing left in the world that fits. Brendon holds on and lets go all at once, giving himself to the implicit plea for trust that's running hot across Ryan's skin, seeping into Brendon's everywhere they touch. He's been laid out for more boys than he can count, tied up and stripped down and spread open, vulnerable to the highest, but he's never felt more exposed than he does now, with Ryan his anchor, still the only one to ever make him fall and now the only one to stop him crashing.

The dizzying smell of _them_ still clinging to Ryan's body from last night filters into Brendon's senses and it's _yes, yes, NO_ until his limbs begin to shake and his breath falls and shudders and he's nearly choking, because how can he breathe when Ryan was his oxygen?

"Sorry," he stutters, wriggling from Ryan's hold until they collapse in a pile on the mat and Brendon wrestles himself away, feeling like a fish flapping awkwardly, helplessly, out of water. "Sorry, I can't. I just -- it's too -- I can't. I'm sorry."

He doesn't look back as he scrambles out of the room and up the stairs, doesn't need to look at Ryan's face to know what's there, and he doesn't even know how to process it -- the fact that now, _now_ , beyond words, beyond their eyes, even beyond their bodies -- they can still communicate.

He only wishes there were more to say.

 

+++

 

He doesn't think anything of it when he yanks on the nearest pair of jeans and a t-shirt from his own room, tucks the tiny red and white box into his back pocket and heads out the front door to avoid passing through the kitchen. He doesn't think of it when he's halfway around the lake, pine needles crunching under his feet; when he extracts the box from one back pocket, slides out one long stick and fishes out his lighter from the other.

It's not until the tip lights up orange, igniting the flash of memory (Ryan's naked skin against his, _I can't, I can't lose you_ ), that it clicks.

Promises in bed, by default, carry less weight than other promises. Or so Brendon's heard, from boys who can't tell promises from lies.

He stares down at it between his fingers, at the smoke trailing seductively upward, shameless and demanding, before sending it to the ground with a rough flick. He digs it into the ground with the toe of his shoe, crushing the flame to ashes, and tries not to think of how easily even the strongest fire can break without oxygen to feed it.

 

+++

 

Blurry from Brendon's laptop, Jasmine coos, "I choose _you_ , Aladdin," and Brendon tries to forget the time he was eight and watched it with his brothers, who punched his arm when a tear slid down his cheek.

He adjusts his cell between his ear and shoulder so the mouthpiece is too low to catch anything, just in case a sniffle should happen to escape. On the other line, Shane giggles as the Genie coughs out a hairball. Doing this in the privacy of his cabin bedroom sure beats the back lounge, when Zack or Spencer or Ryan (Jon's more likely to just join in) would be guaranteed to interrupt with snorts and snark about phone-watching Disney with his "boyfriend."

Life would be so, so much easier if it had been true; if he could've just fallen for Shane instead.

Brendon's long since learned that life doesn't tend to care about our plans or wishes.

A jazzy instrumental mix of "Friend Like Me" starts up over the credits while Brendon sprawls out on his back beside the computer, sighing loudly into the phone.

Shane sighs back, and Brendon can hear his DVD shut off in the background. " _Cheer up, emo kid_."

"No," Brendon pouts. From his tinny laptop speakers, the medley transitions to "A Whole New World" and no, he's not cheering up if he can help it.

" _Wanna pull up the karaoke and I'll sing with you?_ "

"No."

" _I'll do the girl part..._ "

"No."

" _Aww, baby._ "

Brendon closes the top of his computer mid-song, leaving him in a blank, empty silence. From downstairs, he can hear Ryan fiddling with a few stray notes on his guitar. If it's possible to make a D major scale sound miserable, Ryan's done it.

"I want a genie," Brendon announces.

" _Yeah_." Shane's voice is soft, as it always is, but with that added hint of sweet, tolerant compassion he adopts when Brendon's inconsolable. " _What would you wish for?_ "

"Ryan."

" _Nuh-uh,_ " Shane reminds him gently. " _No wishes about falling in love._ "

"That's not..." Brendon feels the weary gears of his brain churning to life as he blinks up at the ceiling, suddenly alert. "That's not what I... I mean. He. I think... he _is_ in love with me."

His heart speeds up even as the words trip from his lips. It's not -- it doesn't feel like a _realization_ ; more like... an awareness of a realization.

" _Then -- what the fuck?_ " Shane asks. " _What are you waiting for? Do it, dude. Fucking... sweep him off his emo princess feet._ "

"I -- " Brendon huffs, forehead scrunching, because it's not like he hasn't fucking -- it's not like -- "It's... complicated."

Shane laughs, a little disbelievingly. " _It's Ryan fucking Ross. When is it ever not complicated?_ "

"I..."

" _And when has that ever stopped you?_ "

Brendon kind of wants to punch Shane as much as he wants to curl up in his lap and cry. Both urges are equally strong, and it's kind of infuriating that he can't indulge either.

"Shane, I don't -- this is -- this is fucked _up_ , I don't know _how_ , okay?"

He's aware his voice is breaking, that it's not overexposure to the glare of his screen that has his eyes stinging, but it doesn't matter, because this fucking hurts and it's not fair, Shane can't just make it look this easy when it's _not_.

" _You will_ ," Shane says. Just like that, matter of fact and no room for argument. " _You'll figure it out, B. I know you. This is -- Jesus, Bren, it's everything you believe in. You love him, he loves you, it's the fucking... Disney ideal. You can't fucking give up on that. You wouldn't be the person I know if you just let this slip away._ "

Something stirs in Brendon's stomach as Ryan's words sting fresh all over, _Life's not a fairytale_ , and he knows, he _knows_ , he's not five again, he knows what life is and isn't. There's no princess in distress, no supernatural forces pulling them apart or pushing them together, but it's not _that_ , it's not circumstance, it's just. It's love. In the end, it's not bravado or magic or luck that triumphs; it's just love.

It's what they've already fucking _got_.

Brendon's eyes wander helplessly, landing on the chair in a corner by the window, on the open spiral notebook spread across it. The visual of a blank, waiting page coupled with Shane's unbridled confidence sparks something in him that feels like _maybe_ spiraling rapidly into _yes_ , but it doesn't register, doesn't click into place, not yet.

" _...Bren?_ "

"Hmm? Yeah."

" _Are you -- can you do this? Are you gonna be okay?_ "

"Yeah. Yeah, I'm -- yeah."

" _You want me to tell you a story?_ "

It shouldn't work so easily but it does; Shane's always slipped willingly into the parental role whenever Brendon's needed it, felt too distanced from his own parents to ask it of them. Being wrenched from their trust and care so young, he'd never quite graduated properly from childhood -- hence his tendency to cling to it still, at his worst.

Brendon can even hear the automatic _yes_ at the edge of his lips until something clicks into place, and his throat clenches.

"I think I'm gonna write my own."


	13. Chapter 13

_I'm gonna turn this thing around  
Can you read my mind?_

 

 

Writing with intent has three effects, each triggering the next: it turns him into a perfectionist; which kind of makes him want to bitch, whine, and slit his wrists; which in turn makes him feel closer to Ryan than even the press of bare skin beneath sweat-damp sheets.

Writing is good -- _writing_ is good, _music_ is good -- but the act of their creation is another world in itself.

It was different before, two-minutes ditties, simple melodies and insistent thoughts spilled over to the page when his head ran out of room to hold them any longer. They weren't for anyone but himself, weren't meant for anything, weren't out to prove. His fucking _life_ wasn't on the fucking line.

...So, so emo.

He crosses out a line, another, and a row of notes, and starts again.

_Once upon a time._

 

+++

 

It feels like spying, like he's intruding on something private even though Ryan's only in the TV room, hunched over his laptop on the floor with a sandwich on a plate beside him, chin resting in his hands as he stares at the monitor. Set against the busy backdrop of [YouTube](http://img.photobucket.com/albums/v369/LolaB/youtubebohemianrhapsody2.png) (5 red stars, 6 video responses, 2,021 comments, 98,955 views), Ryan and Brendon glide through "Bohemian Rhapsody," Brendon head-banging at the piano as Ryan sidles up next to him, straddling the bench and pressing his smiling face into Brendon's shoulder. Even through the poor, blurred quality, Brendon's face lights up like the strip as he leans into it, into Ryan, uniting them, making the song theirs and them each other's.

The clip ends, and Brendon watches Ryan's hand stretch out, sliding across the track pad and clicking play once more. Their faces fade into view from black, all nerves and smiles as they take their places in front of the instruments.

Brendon takes a step back, set to return upstairs, when that one traitorous floorboard creaks beneath his foot and Ryan freezes in place, fingers frantically sliding across the computer to minimize the window, leaving the safe lines of iTunes in its place.

Ryan isn't so ashamed that he won't turn around, and it's almost, _almost_ funny when their eyes meet, Ryan's wide and guilty, like a puppy whose been caught eating the paper. He just waits, waits for whatever Brendon's going to give him or take from him, until Brendon steps forward.

"I haven't seen it."

Ryan swallows, face flushing as he drops his head, fingers slowly inching along the track pad to pull the window back to life, bright and exposing. Brendon settles down besides him, sure to keep a few inches of distance, as Ryan clicks play and their video selves start to move.

None of it should be surprising; they were _there_ , after all, firsthand witnesses to each moment, but what Brendon sees isn't anything he remembers. He doesn't see a performance, he sees a secret, laid open to the world. Half the time they're looking at each other, smiles too big for their faces, and the other half their heads are ducked, slow-creeping blushes visible even through heavy pixelation. Instead of playing hard-to-get like every stage show ever, Ryan's so up in Brendon's space that Brendon has no idea how he managed to play at all, fingers dancing over the keys as Ryan presses up behind him, guitar trapped between their bodies, and nuzzles into Brendon's hair as their notes merge.

It's embarrassing enough on its own, but it's not until his solo that his throat closes up. On screen his eyes are closed against the world, just him and the piano like always, but it's Ryan he watches now, smiling as Brendon dramatizes every line, every note, as only a die-hard could. Brendon catches his eye on the climatic falsetto, smiling like it's Christmas, and Ryan looks at him as if Brendon's all that exists.

Their voices fade with the song, harmony melting and eyes dropping shut; foreheads pressed together, smiles softened. It's only them and the music, no camera and no audience; whoever ripped it cut out before the club's thunderous applause so the final shot's just them, the moment their eyes open on one another.

The silence crashes around them, loud as a wave and twice as suffocating, and when Brendon looks up, Ryan's staring down at his lap.

Brendon chokes it all back, everything he can't say, and says what he can.

"We kicked ass."

Ryan looks up, eyes pleading _Don't pretend_ , but it's not fucking fair, not when it's less than twenty-four hours since Ryan stroked his hair at the piano and all but begged him to pretend for the rest of their lives.

Brendon watches as Ryan's mouth slowly opens, breath shortening as he swallows, as the first shape of a word begins to materialize on his lips.

Brendon squeezes his eyes shut until he's on his feet, padding safely to his room.

Once was enough.

 

+++

 

Brendon tells himself he's logging onto his computer to check his e-mail and steadfastly ignores the way his fingers pull up an extra tab for YouTube without his permission. He watches the clip until he knows every look and gesture by heart, until it's become part of the song in his head. They look so happy. Like it's easy -- just music and the two of them in love.

_It's too easy._

_Maybe you're just making it too hard._

He sighs and pulls up his Twitter.

The entry is dated late the previous night, when Brendon was lying in bed, staring at the ceiling and forcing himself not to walk down the hallway, slip between Ryan's sheets and pretend they could turn back the clock for a few hours. _Just one more night_ had been a very convincing argument then, and he still doesn't know how he managed to stay in his room.

 **thisisryanross** love is a haunting melody that I have never mastered and I fear I never will.

It seems to have provoked some kind of literary quotation war. Brendon doesn't actually recognize any of the comments as famous quotes, but Spencer doesn't usually say things like 'whilst,' so it's a reasonable guess.

 **petewentz** love is the only gold.

 **thespencersmith** gather the rose of love whilst yet is time, dickface.

 **thisisryanross** theme of next album: literary sacrilege.

 **thespencersmith** je donne mon avis non comme bon, mais comme le mien.

Fucking French again. Brendon runs the phrase through Google. It brings back 1,539 pages somehow related to cannibalism. Brendon doesn't even want to know.

 **petewentz** @ **thisisryanross** love is the emblem of eternity; it confounds all notion of time, effaces all memory of a beginning, all fear of an end. beat that.

 **thisisryanross** @ **petewentz** The course of true love never did run smooth (you should know)

 **amazondotjon** there is no fear in love, but perfect love casteth out fear. bow to the wisdom of me at 4:18.

 **thisisryanross** @ **thespencersmith** sounds like a job for you <http://lolab.livejournal.com/100566.html?thread=5496022#t5496022>

Brendon clicks the link and finds himself faced with a screen full of pornfiction so hideous that, if recast, would have brought even Pete and Patrick to their knees. It's Spencer and Jon. Some kind of sex slave scenario. In a basement. Jesus fucking Christ.

 **thespencersmith** revenge is a dish best served cold. and in the absence of witnesses.

 **petewentz** @ **thisisryanross** @ **thespencersmith** intra-band homicide is explicitly forbidden in your contracts. just saying.

 **gabesaporta** dudes, that's hot. cobra says give love a chance in the disco dance.

 **thisisryanross** @ **gabesaporta** you don't get to quote your imaginary pet snake and call it a literary quote.

 **amazondotjon** @ **thespencersmith** @ **thisisryanross** with well doing ye may put to silence the ignorance of foolish men. my buddy peter at 2:15

Which Brendon takes to mean, “Shut the fuck up, both of you.”

 **thespencersmith** fine

 **thisisryanross** those of you following lit class 101, it's a) Burroughs b) Tennyson d) Montaigne e) Staël f) Shakespeare. Spence and Jon as themselves w/ spelling fail

It's the closest Spencer and Ryan will ever get to apologizing to each other, Brendon knows—the equivalent of two 17th Century noblemen giving each other a curt bow after a duel and then pretending that the blood staining lacy shirts and breaches isn't there, and that the cuts below never happened. It's just who they are. They fight and move on, forgiving each other before the blows even land.

 **petewentz** @ **gabesaporta** how would a cobra disco dance?

 **gabesaporta** @ **petewentz** with its body, heart and soul. like all men should. :)

 **petewentz** @ **gabesaporta** next tour, okay?

Brendon skims the rest of the exchange, smiling when it turns into another war--this time about cheesecake and whether using marshmallow fluff for icing is a crime against humanity. After that, he surfs around aimlessly for a while, until he ends up on their blog.

There's a [new entry](http://img.photobucket.com/albums/v369/LolaB/Picture1-7.png). A beautiful picture of the lake outside the cabin and a short text about summer that sounds far too much like goodbye.

He stares at it for a while, then goes back to Twitter and puts the cursor in the comment box. A song is playing in his head, too perfect for how he feels to be anything but painful, but impossible to ignore, nevertheless. He finds a link to it in another tab, hits copy/paste. He hesitates for a while on whether to write something more, deleting one disarming comment after another until he gives up and presses 'update' on the entry as it stands.

 **brendonuriesays** <http://listen.grooveshark.com/#/song/Britten_Hymn_To_St_Cecilia_Op_27/11199452>

Not an 'I love you,' but so much more than that, and if Ryan gets it, he gets it, and if not, then well... there's nothing much Brendon can do about it. Existing in limbo like they are now is draining him, every little crumb of hope Ryan subconsciously drops from his table just enough to make it impossible for Brendon to declare defeat, lick his wounds and move on. It's just enough food for his heart to make him ache with how hungry he is. How much he _wants_ , all the fucking time.

_I will never be different.  
Love me._

He closes his laptop and pulls his backpack out from under the bed, rummaging through the side compartment for his weed and a lighter. He wants to do something else, something _normal_ , preferably something silly and stupid and shallow that will just get him out of his own head for a while.

He hears Ryan move around downstairs, the tell-tale _ping_ of the microwave followed by the TV being switched on in the living room.

A minute later, Ryan appears in the door frame, looking like he's trying for casual but already knowing that he's not pulling it off.

“I made some popcorn?” he says, and Brendon nods, accepting the underlying invitation for the peace offering it is.

“I'll pick the movie.”

Ryan just smiles, and Brendon feels the hunger abate briefly, another crumb falling off the imaginary table and melting on his tongue. He puts the bag of weed into the back pocket of his jeans and follows Ryan down the stairs.

It's worth a shot.

 

+++

 

_Marriage is like a tense, unfunny version of Everybody Loves Raymond, only it doesn't last twenty-two minutes. It lasts forever._

When Ryan finally laughs, it feels like it's been forever. It feels like warm tea with honey and cuddling with Jon's cats and stepping into the McCarran terminal at the end of tour.

Better still, he laughs with his whole body. It starts as a little rumble in his throat, his eyes crinkling in the corners, but he's so tiny that it doesn't take long for his whole frame to shake, shifting on the couch until he's pressed a little against Brendon's side, fiery warm through their thin summer clothes.

Brendon takes a careful breath and plucks the joint from Ryan's loose fingers, willing his nerves into submission as the smoke fills his lungs, welcome and steadying as Seth Rogen and Katherine Heigl start up on Matthew Fox.

" _You know what's interesting about him?_ "

" _What?_ "

" _Nothing!_ "

Brendon huffs in disgust at the same moment Ryan snorts in approval, loud and geeky, and Brendon leers at him sideways.

"Lies," he states somberly. "All _lies_."

"Fox is a tool," Ryan drawls. "Your fuckin' _smoke monster_ is cooler than him."

"True. But I don't want the smoke monster to bend me over the nearest horizontal surface and have its way with me."

Ryan smiles at some point in the distance, on the floor by the TV. Not the screen itself, Brendon can tell, because Ryan's sloppy and obvious when he's high. Sloppy and obvious and a dork, and Brendon sort of desperately wants to kiss him because it's the easiest conversation they've had in days and he doesn't care if it's only the weed, it doesn't matter. It's them, the way they're supposed to be.

"My dick's totally bigger than his," Ryan announces, stealing the joint back.

"Ross, your dick is bigger than _everyone's_."

Ryan's smile widens as his eyes refocus on the TV, a little dazed as the rest of his body slumps further into Brendon until they're sealed all along one side and Ryan's head has fallen into place against the curve of Brendon's neck.

 

+++

 

He wakes up to the sound of rain against the windowpanes and the warmth of Ryan's breath against the side of his neck. It takes him a moment to realize where he is (the living room couch) and why (the weed), and another minute or so to accept that this isn't right where he's supposed to be.

Ryan is draped along his side. Half on top, one arm over Brendon's chest, his left leg hugging Brendon's hips and the right leg sort of spooning Brendon's left. It's like the six perfect mornings in Ryan's bed, only dressed, and the hundreds of mornings in buses and hotels and apartments before that, only impossible to shrug off.

The rain is light and happy, already tapering off, little beams of sun coming through. Brendon's eyes follow the drops as they race against each other down the window, and it's not until he feels Ryan's fingers tracing a feather-light path down his chest that he realizes that his hands have been focused on the tiny rivers as well.

He stills. Lifts the hand caressing Ryan's upper arm half an inch, trying to convince his muscles to move it further away, place the body part safely against the edge of the coffee table and then push to get him off the couch. His body compromises by moving the hand four inches up and three to the left, leaving it to hover over Ryan's shoulder blade.

The rain drops keep forming their rivers and streams, finding new ways across the glass and joining up with each other to gain more speed. Brendon's hand moves again, sliding a little lower, not touching but still feeling the warmth of Ryan's skin against his palm through the t-shirt. His fingers remember smoothness and heat, know and simulate the feel of bone and muscle beneath the skin as they move down Ryan's spine, still keeping the half inch of air between themselves and what they're not allowed to touch.

Ryan's hand begins to mirror his, not touching Brendon's chest. Not stroking him down along one side and not drawing little circles with the side of his thumb over Brendon's hip bone. The leg draped across Brendon's hips stays where it is, relaxed and casual, thigh resting intimately between Brendon's legs but not moving—not pushing down or even acknowledging what it's pressing against.

Brendon closes his eyes, tries to find the focus he needs to move away and keeps slipping, because there's nothing solid to latch on to; they're just lying there, curled together, like they have been a million times— _less_ contact than when it was just for comfort or company—and if his skin flushes under Ryan's not-a-touch, it's because of shared body heat, or energy fields or some kind of other new agey/old agey power-center-thing that Ryan is sure to have a stack of books about.

And if he's starting to feel like he's falling, it's because the raindrops are where he can still see them on the back of his eyelids.

Ryan shifts against him, and it's almost enough. Almost the provocation he needs to mentally pull away the curtain and throw what they're so carefully not doing under the harsh lights of a stage where they can't deny it anymore.

Almost. But not quite.

Ryan's lips don't touch the skin of his neck and don't ghost over his cheek before stopping right above Brendon's mouth. There is mingled breath and memory, almost too much to handle and just not-enough to keep them balancing right on the edge. Ryan doesn't kiss him, and Brendon doesn't kiss back, tongues and teeth keeping to own lips, never crossing the line. Brendon doesn't open his eyes to see the need in Ryan's or reveal that his own are mirroring it. Neither leans in. Neither breaks. They breathe together, hands roaming free but not touching, until Ryan shifts again—a second moment of _so close_ and _almost_ \--keeping their not-touching foreheads the fraction of an inch apart that lets them add another moment to the string they've stolen so far.

“I want to make you come just like this.”

It's more a breath than it is words, out-of-the blue and reverent, and for a split second, Brendon thinks it was just a thought passing through his own head, surging up and pushing him off the cliff into free fall without a hint of a warning.

He feels cotton under his hands, fingers clutching the back of Ryan's t-shirt -- hears a broken moan slip past his lips as the side of Ryan's face presses hotly against his neck. And then, there it is: the other side of the curtain, the brightness of the stage; exhilaratingly real and just as terrifying.

It takes Brendon a while to stop shaking. Ryan's arms move around his neck and chest, holding him too tight and breathtakingly perfect. And then there is something else: the feeling of them. Not them in love or them in bed, but the deeper, solid them that got Brendon through not knowing if the band would ever make it and through living alone when he was far too young; through crowded buses and stage fright and being so homesick he'd thought it would kill him before the end of the first tour.

The them that is everything. That Ryan is so afraid to lose and that Brendon didn't fully understand _couldn't_ be lost until he saw it, just now.

They don't say much as they get off the couch and move into the kitchen. Ryan doesn't apologize and Brendon doesn't need him to. Things feel... better between them. Freshened up by the rain and made a little easier by the sun filtering in through the thin curtains. For the first time in three days, they make real breakfast and manage to actually eat it.

It lasts until they've put the dishes into the sink, until Brendon grabs a towel out of habit and whacks it against Ryan's ass without thinking. The laugh dies in his throat as Ryan gasps, back arching and fingers suddenly white where they hold on to the counter top. Fear comes rushing back as their eyes meet, hot and suffocating, covering the _them_ that is still floating in the sunny kitchen until Brendon can't make it out anymore and Ryan looks like he never saw it.

_If love is not enough to put my enemies to sleep..._

It's Ryan who flees this time, and Brendon watches him go with a sinking feeling in his stomach.

No.

He's in the music room before he notices that was where he was heading, fingers flying over the piano, looking for a story in the chaos of notes and beats. He doesn't find it, so he looks again, trying out new scales, new chord progressions. The right music is there, somewhere, if he just keeps looking.

It has to be.

 

+++

 

_Blessed Cecilia, appear in visions_  
To all musicians, appear and inspire:  
Translated Daughter, come down and startle  
Composing mortals with immortal fire. 

W.H. Auden

 

 

Their second album lied. The piano doesn't know shit.

The piano hates Brendon's song, that's what, and Brendon's not far behind. He's got a line of iambic pentameter and a measure and a half of notes he hates but can't out of his head, and he will never _ever_ lose patience with Ryan during the writing process ever, ever again, holy god.

He indulges himself with a glance up from endless black and white, only to find the sun a scant few hours from setting, and there's no way he can escape the metaphor, not on their last night.

This isn't how it's supposed to be.

In the back of his mind he can hear Zen Master Ryan insisting _It's not 'supposed' to be anything_ , and fine, maybe there isn't anything it's supposed to be, but Brendon's pretty sure he knows what it's _not_ supposed to be, and that's this. Two steps back for every step forward, time pressing down on him, hot and heavy. He feels like Jasmine trapped in the hourglass, only there's no one to rescue him, not when his enemies are all in his head.

Maybe Ryan was right after all. There's no fairytale. Maybe love doesn't triumph, maybe life does instead. He can't even prove himself through music, and if music's betrayed him, what's left? They'll eat their last supper under their last sunset, retire to their own beds where they won't sleep, and drive home in silence, nauseated by the looming threat of tour and how they'll ever manage _this_ amidst the unforgiving confines of a bus and the knowing eyes of their band, their family.

That. _That's_ life.

The heavy wooden cover slams down over the keys as Brendon storms from the room, too desperate for physical release to care that he hasn't eaten since breakfast. He strips off his sweat-sticky shirt on his way through the foyer, hurling it at the nearest wall as he wrenches open the door, jogging toward the basketball net and stopping cold.

Ryan lands a flawless three-pointer just as the door slams shut behind Brendon, inadvertently punctuating the triumph. Ryan startles at the sound, spinning around, his arms still high above his head but floating down to his sides as their eyes meet.

The ball bounces across the driveway, bumping into Ryan's ankle and rolling off to the side. Brendon's fists clench against the fabric of his jeans, and he swallows the lump of colliding emotions as he turns to head back inside.

"Sorry."

"Hey," Ryan stops him.

Ryan's just as shirtless, just as gorgeous and flushed as he was five seconds ago, when Brendon turns around. His face is guileless behind his hair; not questioning, just existing, taking the moment for what it is.

He shrugs, bending over to pick up the ball. "Play with me?"

Brendon tries not to think of invitations, of games lost and manipulated and never won; and instead thinks only of Ryan's face, open and wide-eyed and devoid of any agenda beyond repair.

They can do this. _This_ they can do.

Brendon nods, and Ryan tosses him the ball, body loosening as he steps back, allowing Brendon some space when he approaches.

The tension's still gripping Brendon's limbs as he moves, but it's shifted from internal aggression to something more, something tighter but subtler, less tangible -- something that overheats to the point of melting when Ryan closes in for a failed block as Brendon shoots and scores.

Ryan's expression is priceless, a forced acceptance behind wide eyes, and it's clear he hadn't planned to get his cocky ass owned this time around. Brendon smiles a little inside, careful to keep his face even as he passes Ryan the ball, hovering close enough to touch but not, and it'd be too easy to use it to his advantage, to take them back to the living room sofa and break Ryan down, burning breaths and almost-contact pushing them to the edge, but he doesn't. Ryan trusted him enough to let him in this far, and the least Brendon can do is play by the rules, for once.

Ryan ducks around him for a lay-up and Brendon springs up suddenly beside him, knocking the ball from its precarious balance along the rim and hurling it to the ground, where he launches into a sneaky dribbling rhythm just out of Ryan's reach. He glances up to watch Ryan nod encouragement to himself, eyes focused on the ball as his breath starts to thicken under the exertion. Brendon re-angles his body but Ryan's right there, reflexes primed as he closes in, hovering to plan his next move.

"So," he says, false casual as his breath blankets the back of Brendon's neck. "You talked to Shane?"

Brendon hears, _Did you tell him how much I hurt you? Does he hate me now? Do **you** hate me now? Will he beat me up next time he sees me? Will he be offering comfort sex when you get back?_

He says, "Yeah," and hopes it sounds like _no_.

Ryan says, "Oh."

Brendon's too busy figuring out what that means and thinking he's spent way too many years with Ryan if he's putting that much analysis into one monotone syllable, that his hands are empty before he knows it, and Ryan's dribbling across the driveway, moving in on the basket. Brendon crosses in a flash, leaping into defense and closing both hands around the ball just as Ryan leaps off the ground, arms high over his head. He huffs in frustration as Brendon backs off, aims and shoots, and the basket offers a satisfying _swish_.

"I would've watched _Aladdin_ with you," Ryan announces to the dirt and pine beneath their feet, twirling the ball aimlessly on one finger as he crosses the driveway.

Brendon smiles, stays motionless until Ryan looks up and sees it. "Maybe I didn't feel like listening to another one of your rants on physics. Also -- traveling."

Ryan narrows his eyes and passes Brendon the ball with a little more force than necessary, but the corners of his mouth are starting to twitch and Brendon thinks _win_ that has nothing to do with the game. He assumes position beyond where he imagines the line might be, and takes aim.

"Look, even if magic carpets were _real_ \-- "

Brendon rolls his eyes, lowering the ball and cocking a hip to give Ryan his reluctant attention.

" -- the chance that they'd be able to travel at that speed, and half the time they're not even holding onto it, and even when they _are_ holding onto it, they wouldn't be able to stay level, they'd be hanging off the edge."

"Shut up, Ross. It's magic." Brendon smiles crookedly at him and sends the ball flying in a tall arc. He misses just by a hair, the ball bouncing off the net as Ryan scrambles forward to claim it.

"Yeah, unlike your skills," Ryan mutters, but he looks up smiling, eager to ensure he was heard.

"Bitch," Brendon huffs, inserting himself shamelessly into Ryan's space as Ryan dribbles around him. "At least I'm dynamite in bed."

Ryan laughs, a little breathless and caught off guard as he ducks his head, carefully dodging Brendon's advances.

"What, you gonna deny it?" Brendon prods, pushing closer, eyes twinkling.

"Shut up, Urie," Ryan orders weakly, still breathless and blushing too hard to look up.

"Yeah? Yeah? Make me."

They're close, so close, close enough that Brendon can feel the heat and sweat and not know whose is whose, and he's just starting to wonder how long they could keep this up, playing around and off each other, never touching but tossing more power back and forth than if they were, and it's so much like before, just as intoxicating and twice as dangerous because there's nothing controlled here, no set rules outside of the game, and they've broken so many already.

Ryan's eyes finally lift, challenging, and suddenly Brendon feels two long fingers dart out to pinch the bit of skin on the side of his ribs, the spot only his siblings (and fucking _Ryan_ , after months of research) have ever known about, the most ticklish spot on anyone ever, and Brendon leaps back, yelping pitifully before he realizes what's happened. Ryan takes the opportunity and launches himself toward the basket, landing the shot just as Brendon leaps forward to block him and fail, their feet tangling together in the chaos until gravity wins and carries them to the soft ground in a heap of limbs.

Brendon's a little surprised at his own instinct, finding the knuckles of one hand dug deep into the dirt as his palm had come around to cup the back of Ryan's head, protecting him from the impact. Ryan's eyes blink open, staring up into Brendon's and they're brighter than he's seen them in days, full of a thousand questions and answers that weren't there before and Brendon can't even tell which is which.

He gulps, not even caring that his eyes fall to Ryan's lips for a split second, and whispers, "Foul."

Ryan blinks, immobile, and it's -- it's the movie moment it's not allowed to be. But there's no instrumental crescendo, no meeting of lips, just them and their bodies, touching in a hundred places they're not allowed.

Brendon averts his eyes and gently pries himself away, pulling himself to his feet and dusting himself off before leaning over, offering Ryan his hand.

Ryan eyes it, looking up to Brendon like he's a few moments behind. Part of Brendon (a pretty damn huge part, if he's being honest) wants to just drop back to his knees and take Ryan in his arms and fall right back in time with him, not just seconds but days, but there's something bigger here -- something more important than instinct and impulse and _want_ \-- something he can't dare shatter, no matter how tempting.

He reaches a little further, eyes locked to Ryan's. "Do you trust me?"

Ryan's eyes falter a little, widen in recognition, and he gets it. His hand reaches up, closing around Brendon's as he allows himself to be pulled to his feet. Brendon's aim is a little off and Ryan winds up close, too close, closer than not-touching; in fact, their chests are practically flush and Brendon can smell the blueberry popsicles Ryan's been sucking down like air since the temperature leap four days ago.

Ryan squeezes Brendon's hand, still locked with his own as his eyes dart across Brendon's face, like he's looking for the first time and coming home and sliding into place all at once, dropping down to Brendon's mouth and finally back up, settling.

He whispers, "Yes."

The three letters carry so much weight Brendon wonders how the word is still afloat in the air, loud and present and palpable between them, saying more than pages of lyrics ever could, and more than lips would ever dare. It's not only the point of no return; it's the point he realizes Ryan doesn't _want_ to return.

Brendon stares back, blown pupils in a stand-off, and realizes it's only a matter of convincing Ryan he can have it.

Ryan's not giving him much time to think, already leaning in, eyes fluttering shut and lips so close Brendon can almost taste him.

In a surge of willpower, Brendon wrenches himself away, one hand on Ryan's chest to keep space between them, and steps back, breath coming short and wrecked. Ryan looks like he's been burned, the implicit rejection sharp between them, but that, that Brendon can take. That, Brendon can _fix_.

And he fucking will, now that he knows what Ryan needs. Now that he knows it's fear and fear alone, binding Ryan from his own happiness, and all he needs is Brendon to reassure him. To set him free.

A lyric flashes across Brendon's mind, and another, and he releases Ryan's hand mostly on shock, taking another step back toward the house.

"I -- I have to -- " He swallows, shaking his head to clear it. "Have to go -- do. Something."

He can't hear the ground under his feet or the slam of the door behind him, only the words and notes pouring into his conscious from nowhere, flooding him until it's all he can hear, feel, taste; all he can breathe.

Ryan will have his haunting melody yet.

 

+++

 

The notes pour in faster than he can write them down, faster even than he can play them, and it's not like he's not trying, fingers flying over the strings once he'd progressed to guitar, feeling grounded by the solid weight of it in his arms and lap. The words come in images, frames racing each other across his mind's eye: he sees bits and pieces of Ryan; an ancient marketplace and palace walls, and other things -- it's been so long since he's written with intent that he'd forgotten what it's like to _see_ adjectives behind his eyelids, to feel verbs burning over his skin. It's intense, almost too much, and it's why he doesn't write more often. He's only lucky he doesn't need it like oxygen the way Ryan does; that it only demands his heart on the rare occasions he's too spent to hold onto it anyway.

It feels like an answer to a question Ryan never asked, playing him at his own game. Fairytales and reinvention and promises Ryan's always needed to hear and never had the nerve to request. It feels like coming home and leaving something behind all at once, but the exhilaration coursing through his blood tells him it's something he's willing to leave behind; that he's leaving it for something better. His mind is clinging pretty tight to the element of vague, but the half-scared-half-ecstatic smile he finds himself directing at the neck of the guitar says enough.

He doesn't really feel the process unfold; doesn't sense the sun lowering in the sky beyond the music room's endless windows, and it's almost a shame that the experience is lost in the chaos, in the beauty of it; that Brendon doesn't even realize what he's playing until the ink-filled page is laid out on the floor in front of him and he's halfway through his second full run-through, and he realizes there may be a slight component of abject terror in what he's about to do.

This is -- this is _it_. This is all he has. He doesn't have Ryan's endless, earth-shattering words, he doesn't have Jon's fix-anything magic or Spencer's calm, keen logic to rationalize their way out of this. Music is all he has, and those few words that fit into the notes because they have to, and nothing else.

He sighs, cutting himself off halfway through the song and staring down at his fingers, locked into position on the strings. He realizes, arbitrarily, that they're holding the same chord Brendon started with -- the first chord of the first song Ryan ever handed to him with nervous eyes and said, _Play this_ , in a small, questioning voice, and Brendon did. He did and two hours later Spencer pulled him into the next room and threw his arms around him and said, _I haven't seen him smile like that in months_.

If music was good enough for Ryan then...

He looks up, set to try the rest without the help of page, when his eyes catch on something beyond the spread of glass enclosing the room. Just outside, a practically two-dimensional figure is winding its way slowly along the path from the deck down to the lake, silhouetted dark under the glaze of setting sun. His head's hung low and his shoulders hunched, and Brendon watches him cross to the end of the dock and plop down, knees hugged tightly to his chest as he faces out over the water, motionless.

It should be beautiful, stunning, a striking photo op, Ryan's artful angles against the brilliant spread of colors on the horizon -- but instead it's maybe the saddest fucking thing Brendon's ever seen.

He pulls himself to his feet with his guitar, stepping over to the window until he's facing it, facing Ryan, separated only by the glass and the distance. He hooks the strap of the guitar around his neck and positions the instrument, strumming out the opening notes as he takes a deep breath.

A little trial run never hurt anyone.


	14. Chapter 14

"Pictures don't do it justice."

Ryan unfolds himself enough to turn around, eyes lifting as Brendon pads down the length of the dock, closer with each step. His forehead creases a bit as his eyes land on the guitar in Brendon's hands, as Brendon lays it gently down behind them before taking a seat next to Ryan, hands folded in his lap and legs hanging over the edge of the dock.

"What?" Ryan asks.

Brendon smiles, just enough to put Ryan at ease, or so he hopes. "Your blog."

Ryan looks caught, staring like he's waiting for the punchline, for demands of an explanation. When Brendon proposes none, he deflates, turning back to the lake, to the near-blinding reflection of dying sunlight on the ripples of water.

"It's nothing special," Ryan lies.

"Then why'd you take a picture?"

"I wanted to remember."

"Remember what?"

Ryan shrugs, letting his legs extend to dangle over the edge, and toes the surface of the water with one bare foot. "That we were here."

Brendon watches the water splash up, a few drops landing on the rolled-up cuffs of Ryan's jeans, darkening the fabric. "What makes you think you'd forget?"

Ryan runs one fingertip over the darkened material, tracing the drops that look like tears. "I feel like I'm starting to already."

Brendon might be running on panicked nerves, stretched taut to the breaking point, but he's been performing too many years not to recognize a cue when it clocks him on the fucking head.

"Ryan..."

He doesn't know what he's expecting -- a lead, maybe, like the first invitation spoiled him and he's waiting for another. For wide amber eyes spelling out _yes_ in the glow of the sunset. For all the pieces to fall into place and all the cliches to settle over them, because after this many years of failure, Brendon's entitled to a few of the cliches. Sunset confessions and whispered I-love-yous, promises of forever, skin on skin and nothing but music between them.

When Ryan turns to face him, he looks like an ending.

Brendon gulps, wiping his clammy palms on the knees of his jeans, and tries to remember every morning for the past month, when all he had to do was breathe.

"I -- I wanted. I wanted to say something. Um." And, right, now there's the whole business of _saying it_. "I was thinking. About -- what you said -- "

"I'm sorry I ruined it."

"I -- what?"

Brendon's pretty sure it's not healthy for his heart to double in tempo in the space of, well, a heartbeat, but there's nothing he can do to stop it, because even in five short words he can taste the doubt, the regret; feel the telling tremor as Ryan's infallible walls start to crumble around him, leaving him without a shell and nothing but hope to hold him up.

"No -- " Brendon starts, breathless. "No, fuck, can I just -- "

"Please don't."

" _Ryan_ \-- "

"Look, I know I fucked it up, okay, I don't need any more reminders."

"Oh my _god_ , are you kidding me?!" Brendon springs to his feet, watching Ryan follow every movement with wide eyes, and maybe it's not the easy cliches, but there's still enough hope in them, flickering somewhere behind the fear, to spur him on. "Jesus fuck, Ryan, you think I'm giving up this easily? Dude, I -- I freaking played you Pachelbel's Canon, I acted out my _wedding night_ with you, I gave you a god damned candy ring! Do I have to get down on one fucking knee?"

Ryan stares, slack-jawed and finally speechless.

"I -- okay," Brendon chokes. "Okay."

He nods to himself, bending over to snatch up his guitar and settle into a patch of sun (the last), cross-legged with the instrument cradled like a life preserver in his arms.

"Right." He looks up, fighting his own fear alongside Ryan's with one relentless stare. "Apparently singing is the only way you'll listen to me without interrupting, so."

He can't help the smile that peeks through at the hard truth; Ryan can wail and moan his way through a practice, but the moment Brendon's lips part over the mic, he's silent, eyes and ears attuned to every nuance, every note, every word, no matter which ones emerge.

It's the same look now; entranced; that same quiet respect -- and it's a little muddled under the raging host of emotions fighting for dominance in Ryan's eyes, but even under the layers, Brendon can see it. He's been peeling back Ryan's layers for years, one by one and Ryan's never asked him to stop, never tried to wrap himself back up in them once Brendon's broken through, and he isn't now. He's allowing. It's maybe the highest form of trust Ryan Ross can offer, and Brendon will die before he betrays it.

"I don't have a title yet," he says softly, staring down at the body of the guitar, and his voice is cracked and broken like he's fourteen again, stumbling through his first botched recording of "First Try."

He glances up one last time, and Ryan almost looks like he's going to say something, open his big stupid mouth and try to make sense of things he has no business making sense of, so Brendon does all he can think to do to stop him.

He plays.

It should feel smaller, quieter than it did indoors, with the sound of the wind in the lake and the evening bugs intruding with unplanned harmony, but somehow it feels bigger -- like he's onstage and Ryan's the only one in the audience, each note echoing in the mass of space. He knows he's imagining the clear acoustics, the resounding theatrical echoes, but it doesn't make them any less real. He feels the words and hears Ryan's silence and tastes the music, and doesn't know how he reaches the end even after he's there.

_I know you killed the brides before me_  
I know that I am next in line  
But in our bed, I'll tell you tales  
Of endless skies and desert sand 

_I'll distract you with a thousand legends_  
And one more story after that  
Until we've reached our ever after  
Without you knowing it was there 

_Let me steal an apple for you_  
Passing through the market place  
Share it with me on the rooftops  
Kiss me at the palace gate 

_And if you need more reassurance_  
To leave behind the fears that bind  
Then press repeat, I'll start again  
With ”once upon a time.” 

When the last note of the last line of the last verse dies out, the illusion fades more than shatters, but with the same end result -- leaving Brendon in silence, terrified to look up, knowing this is the last moment in the series, the last wobbling domino that'll determine where they'll end up.

_Fear is so scary-powerful._

He can hear the words in his own fucking voice, clearer than if they were spoken, mocking him.

_Never, ever let it win._

If he can't do it himself, how can he expect it of Ryan?

Slowly, he lifts his head.

Ryan, to his surprise, doesn't look much different, and Brendon can't tell if he should be relieved or --

Or.

Or if Ryan already let it win.

There's really not much time to sit and ponder it, because Ryan's starting to move, disentangle his miles of limbs and take the few steps over to Brendon until he's behind him, settling down against his back and snaking his arms around until his hands cover Brendon's on the strings. It's all slow-motion and fast-forward in one, like Brendon can't quite keep up with it, but his brain, his fucking crazy _heartbeat_ , are miles ahead, trying to anticipate every next moment until Ryan's breath touches his ear and everything just shuts down.

"I think," Ryan whispers, stretching one of Brendon's fingers until it reaches the next fret, "there should be an A flat at the start of the second verse."

Brendon swallows. Stares at their hands. Says, "Oh."

All feeling drains from his limbs as he feels Ryan press closer, nuzzling the side of his neck, and his own hands drop from the strings, falling limp to his sides as Ryan takes over, slowly picking out the introduction from memory.

Ryan breathes, "Sing it again?"

Brendon sings.

And if his voice hitches a bit, Ryan only presses closer, and if he forgets his own damn lyrics, Ryan hums them under his breath until Brendon picks back up. And if his head turns just a bit as he sings _Kiss me at the palace gate_ , Ryan is right there waiting for him, head tilted just enough for Brendon to meet him halfway for that perfect, passionate kiss they practiced half a decade to reach.

And it's. It's new. It doesn't feel like a first step, like the beginning of foreplay, like it exists only to lead them elsewhere. It exists for itself, for the simple press of mouths as Ryan parts his lips and Brendon follows, their tongues meeting in the middle to draw them deeper. But it stays where it is, just a kiss, mouth to mouth and hand to cheek, gentle and sweet but enough to make the air buzz between them when they separate.

Ryan strokes his thumb over Brendon's jaw, smiling against his lips, and whispers, "This is why I brought you here."

Brendon smiles back. "This is why I came."

Ryan's smile widens, his eyes falling shut like it's sensory overload, too much to take in already without adding the sight of Brendon across from him, here, _his_.

Brendon can so totally relate.

He gently sets the guitar aside, turning to face Ryan at a better angle, and brings his other hand up, cupping Ryan's face in his palms.

"I know you're scared," he says, quick and sharp in case Ryan tries to stop him. "I -- I'm scared too, man. Either of us could die tomorrow in a fucking car accident, there's no guarantees, ever. But -- fuck, Ryan, I'd rather have one day with you than never have had you at all."

Ryan closes his eyes, leaning in until their foreheads touch, whispers, "I love you," and Brendon can't remember why he was afraid.

Brendon's eyes shoot open and he stares, half certain he imagined it. "Say it again."

Ryan smiles. "I love you."

"Again."

"I fucking love you, now fucking kiss me already -- "

Brendon would've fucking kissed him whether he'd asked or not, so whatever, it doesn't matter because Ryan _loves him_ , and this is so, so much better than all the romantic cliches he was owed. But he kisses him anyway, hard and full and epic until they just fall back onto the heat-soaked wood, Brendon's body pressing Ryan's down and Ryan's pressing up, limbs wrapping around him and holding on, not so tight he's afraid Brendon would disappear, but just tight enough to say _I know you won't_.

Brendon pulls back for a second to get his bearings, but mostly to see Ryan's smile, because he figures even if he never saw it again, this could carry him through the rest of his life.

"I love you too, by the way," he says, smiling back.

"Yeah, good," Ryan grins, pulling him back down, and that's the end of that.

It doesn't feel like any fantasy, elbows and knees and heads colliding with the hard wood of the deck as they try to sink into one another, but it's good, just like this, just two bodies with no doubt and all the time in the world. Ryan kisses now like he's only just discovered how to do it, what it's for -- open and loose and wet, until Brendon goes limp enough for Ryan to start tugging at his jeans. Brendon registers the soggy _flap_ as the dense fabric hits the surface of the water and he whimpers his disapproval, but Ryan only smiles into his mouth, snatching his hand and guiding it to the waistband of his own jeans, pressing hard, and, _oh_.

Ryan wrestles his way on top, wriggling eagerly out of the rest of his clothes before pulling Brendon up and crawling into his lap, just planes of skin between them and the sunset on their backs, bodies pushing up against each other until their dicks brush between the rhythm of their hips.

"Fuck," Ryan gasps.

"Mph," Brendon agrees, arms wrapping around Ryan's wiry torso as Ryan's follow, curling around Brendon and squeezing tight, fingers reaching to tangle in his hair, guide his head where he wants it. Their mouths meet again, and again, and again, just open collision of teeth and tongue, no technique and no agenda, and Brendon could go at it like this all night, could hold off for hours if it only meant more of _this_.

Ryan's mouth pulls off suddenly, head falling back to expose the length of his neck, and Brendon dips in, licking a stripe up the ridged line of his throat, one hand in Ryan's hair to support his head, and Ryan's lost under it all, his moan breaking clear into the silence. A shudder passes through them both, setting off their rhythm and balance and they're toppling down, tipping right over the edge with a wild, messy splash.

Ryan's giggling when Brendon splutters to the surface, already reaching out to pull him close, and Brendon grins, sliding his hands over Ryan's hips.

"Smooth, Ross."

"I'll show you smooth, asshole."

Ryan makes good on his word, seducing Brendon's mouth into open surrender, tongues piping hot against the cool surrounding their bodies. They slide together beneath the water, effortless, easy and slippery enough that their hands drift between their bodies before they know it, still-warm fingers closing around their cocks.

"Shit," Brendon stutters, pressing his face deep into the curve of Ryan's neck. "That's -- "

"Yeah," Ryan breathes. " _Yeah_."

And it is, endless liquid between them as they start to pump each other faster, still unhurried but with clear intent. Brendon can feel Ryan getting close, the way his body breaks out in these tiny shudders, lost to any rhythm; the way his fingertips dig into whatever part of Brendon he's clinging to, just to hold himself together. Brendon's so wrapped up in it, so focused on Ryan that his own climax takes him by surprise, by fucking _storm_ ; that he barely registers Ryan's strangled whimper as he follows.

Everything is bright when they come down, beautiful and clear and sharp. It doesn't feel like the world they left, and Brendon wonders if it has anything to do with the soft "I love you" that Ryan presses to his lips.

Brendon smiles, says it back, and thinks, yeah, maybe so.

Their kisses change then, building fast from a lazy, afterglowy make-out to frantic, full-on desperation. There's teeth now, nails and rough-ragged breaths and hands fisted in hair, coaxing whimpers and moans that never see the light of day, spilled straight into one another's mouths.

"Need -- " Ryan pants, forcing their mouths apart. "Seriously -- need to fuck you. Now."

" _Fuck_ yes."

They're up and off, and the process is far from sexy -- awkwardly pulling themselves back onto the dock and slipping on the wet surface, trying to wordlessly negotiate their various states of nudity and whether it's worth it to try to pull on any of their clothes before heading inside. Images of their bare asses in the tabloids coupled with painful memories of pine cones and pebbles digging sharply into their feet win out, and they slosh gracelessly back to the cabin in boxers and shoes and t-shirts. They're barely inside the kitchen door before the clothes turn into mortal enemies and shoes are flying recklessly, leaving muddy stains against the baseboards and there goes Ryan's deposit -- again.

Ryan's closing in on him fast, shoving Brendon up against the wall by the fridge and clawing at his t-shirt. Brendon's arms flail aimlessly in his attempt to help, but he only succeeds in knocking a picture frame clear off the wall. Somewhere below he hears the glass shatter and Ryan laughing breathlessly against his shoulder.

"Way to go, fucker."

"Fuck you, upstairs."

There is no plausible explanation for how they actually make it upstairs. Turns out Ryan's energy is wicked contagious and soon it's all he can do to keep up with the explosive way it's taken hold of Brendon. Brendon's got bruises already blossoming on his hip from where they'd tripped halfway up the stairs and Ryan fell on him, and Ryan's going to feel it in the morning where his head rammed into the wall once Brendon decided he'd had enough of Ryan's stupid button-down shirt, unbuttoned or not, and that the only thing left to do was pin Ryan to the nearest flat surface and rip it off him.

Actually reaching the bedroom shoots a dizzy sense of accomplishment through them both, breaking their focus, and when Ryan starts backing them toward the bed, he misses by a mile and they end up colliding with the balcony door. It shakes under the impact, and Brendon pulls back, eyes wide.

"Better not break anymore glass," Ryan pants, a hint of mischief coating his tone.

"Better stop slamming me into things, then."

Ryan growls, uncaring of their position as he begins to suck a line of bright red marks up Brendon's neck, reaching blindly back toward the dresser to feel around for the bottle of lube strewn amongst the toiletries. Brendon manages to get one hand around Ryan's ass to tug his underwear down, and the other behind himself, feeling around for the door handle and shoving it hard.

The door whooshes to the side as they tumble out onto the balcony, limbs everywhere.

"Fuck," Ryan gasps as they land in a pile on the hard expanse of outdoor carpet. "You okay?"

Brendon nods frantically, pulling him back down. He's barely okay, he's going to feel this for weeks, but their bodies have taken enough abuse in the past five minutes, what's a little more?

"Crazy," Ryan's whispering against his mouth as he fumbles with the cap on the lube, lips stretching into a smile. "Fucking crazy."

"Shut up, you love me."

"Yeah," Ryan agrees, and, " _yeah_ ," when he realizes what he's saying.

"Bed?"

"Nope," Ryan pants, twisting off the cap and literally pouring lube into his hand, cursing when it starts to drip between his fingers. "Right fucking here."

" _Fuck_."

"That's kinda the idea." Ryan grins at him, lopsided, breath coming short and fast as he dips his hand between Brendon's legs, starting to push two fingers inside.

Brendon yanks them away. "Just -- come on. Fuck me."

Brendon can actually _see_ Ryan's eyes lose focus, they way they go glassy and his pupils blow wide before he nods, completely wrecked, and chokes back a broken moan as Brendon starts pumping him with his fist, slicking him up as best he can manage. He drops his hands to the floor, palms pressing flat down, and stares up into Ryan's eyes: every kind of affirmation he can offer.

Ryan doesn't question him, doesn't ask him what he wants because he already knows. He slides in like it's all he's meant to do for the rest of their lives, and even in a mere two days of deprivation, Brendon's already forgotten how complete, how fucking _full_ it feels, and Ryan sure as fuck makes certain Brendon's not going to forget it any time soon. He fucks him with none of the reservations from before, no concern for technique or precision or skill, but the end result kind of melts Brendon's brain from his head. It's Ryan, literally in reckless abandon, sacrificing all his control like he never wants it back, pounding into him with no thought for anything else in the world. There's no halfway, no tentative, no questions. It's all an avalanche of answers, and each one sounds like _yes_.

Brendon doesn't dare wrap his arms around Ryan, doesn't want to hold him down or guide him, just reaches back and grips the metal bars of the railing as tight as he can. But they're closer somehow than if they were wrapped up in each other, their eyes locked together, dark and unblinking through each thrust all the way to the end, when Brendon feels himself shoot hard between them, catching their stomachs and chests and even Ryan's throat. Ryan stutters through a gasp, eyes finally breaking contact and rolling back into his head as he releases, spilling hot and wet inside Brendon and it's. It's.

It's. Yeah.

Brendon has no idea how long it takes them to come down, how long they spend just looking into each other's eyes, slack-jawed and panting; how long they kiss, slow and open and gentle, hands cupping each other's faces, guiding; how long before Brendon pulls back to lick up the line of come dripping down the side of Ryan's throat. But he suspects it's pretty damn long, because by the time they stop, the sun's long gone and Brendon's lost count of how many mosquito bites are starting to itch all down his body.

He smiles up at Ryan, scratching absently at his hip. "They're eating me."

Ryan raises an eyebrow. "Lucky them."

Brendon snorts. " _Bed_ , loser."

"Yeah. Yeah, bed."

Bed is good. Bed is bug-free and clean and cool and soft, welcome relief to their sweat- and sun-soaked bodies. They lie on their sides, close enough to tangle their legs and clasp hands between their chests, but far enough apart that they can talk, study each other's eyes through the moments.

"So," Brendon starts, grinning stupidly, "that was totally _not_ how I thought that would go."

Ryan smiles, ducking his head. "I. Kinda hoped it would, actually."

"Oh really?"

He shrugs. "You don't have the monopoly on stupid wedding fantasies."

Brendon's eyes widen, and he's glad that Ryan looks up to see, because that's about all he's going to manage out of this reaction.

"What, it's nothing. It's just. Girls aren't the only ones who think about that stuff, y'know."

Brendon bites his lip, a smile fighting its way out. "So where are we?"

Ryan blinks. "What?"

"It's our wedding night, where are we?"

Ryan grins. "Tuscany."

"Yeah?" Brendon grins back. "Why not France? Y'know, a language one of us actually knows?"

"That time. Remember?"

It's a testament to just how long and how deeply they've been weaved into each other's lives that Brendon understands everything from three words. It was their first tour in Europe, and they'd ditched everyone to hit up Italy for the day. It rained, rained hard and _cold_ ; sightseeing was out, but it didn't stop them from sharing the best fucking plate of spaghetti they'd ever had in their lives before hopping back on the train. They were still soaking wet and freezing, having brought literally nothing but the shirts on their backs, and Brendon spent the entire train ride in Ryan's lap, huddled close for warmth as Ryan hugged him tight, humming songs in his ear until Brendon fell asleep.

He swallows. "I remember."

Ryan smiles.

"Outdoor ceremony?"

"I was thinking, maybe, yeah. And roses. Everywhere. Just. Fucking -- piles of red roses. And a harp, 'cause my grandmother played it, and that's like, all I remember about her."

Brendon squeezes his hand. "What else?"

Ryan looks up, smirking. "Well, we've gotta figure out where Pete's gonna sit, 'cause I don't think he should be anywhere within a hundred-foot radius of your family."

Brendon chuckles, leaning in to steal a kiss. "So we're in Tuscany... having crazy animal sex on the balcony and scarring all the other honeymooners for life... I am so totally down with this, dude."

Ryan laughs, pinching his wrist. "I know it's not violins and candles, but _fuck_ , this was just--"

"Exactly what you needed?"

Ryan looks up at him, eyes slightly widened in surprise. "Yeah," he says softly, lifting a hand to trail a slow path down Brendon's chest. "I know it's stupid or whatever, but I sort of always hoped that I could have this, like really _bad_ sex and--"

"Oh wow, way to bash on the ego, dude."

"Shut up, you know you're magic. I just meant that, I don't know, sex always has to be so fucking _perfect_ all the time. Like, I think too much. And try too hard. And with you, it's just... It's like I don't even care. Because I _want_ you. Like, really, _really_ want you--"

Brendon cuts him off with a kiss, rolling them over until Ryan is pressed against the sheets rocking his hips rhythmically against Brendon's.

"I want you too," he breathes. "Eaten by mosquitos or in a bed at the fucking Hilton, I don't care."

Ryan smiles.

"Yeah, and that's what I mean. You're-- _We're_ not that. Just. It's messy and ridiculous, and I'm pretty sure you actually have some kind of weird lake plant in your hair, but--"

"That's 'cause I'm your mermaid."

Ryan laughs at that, loud and free, completely unsexy and still so amazing that Brendon can't help falling in love all over again.

"Point is," Ryan says when he gets himself together again. "You're perfect. Because you're _not_ perfect. Does that even make sense?"

Brendon presses closer, tugging Ryan's gaze toward him with a hand on his chin, their eyes not really searching, but waiting. Absorbing. Maybe a little questioning, but always sure the answer's close on the horizon.

"You want imperfect? I'm your man, baby."

Ryan laughs again, rolling them over until he's the one who's got Brendon pinned, and drops a kiss to his lips. "This is the best kind of imperfect."

Brendon melts into it as their mouths move, Ryan's tongue swirling softly against his own, and thinks... yeah.

 

+++

 

There's a weird knot in Brendon's stomach as he makes one last run through the rooms, ducking under beds and behind doors to make sure nothing's left behind. The cabin's still furnished but it looks empty without them, without all their junk lying around. It hasn't been long enough to feel like home, exactly, and he's excited for what's ahead -- tour and, hey, _his boyfriendwhois **Ryan**_ \-- but he still feels like he's not quite ready to go. Not quite ready to leave paradise and face the music.

 

His footsteps echo on the bare bathroom floor as he walks to the shower, peeking past the curtain. There's nothing inside but the bar of soap they'd found beneath the cabinet, now little more than a thin, bendy strip. He glances over the tile walls, remembering the image of Ryan's head tipped back against them as Brendon had first dropped to his knees.

Looking at it all through the lens of memory, it's hard to remember that he's leaving only the physical place behind. That Ryan, _Ryan_ , is coming with him.

A smile breaks wide over his face at the thought, remembering Ryan's midnight decision of, _Yeah, so I'm just gonna walk over to your mic and lay one on you at our first show._ It's nerve-wracking, thrilling, exhilarating and fucking terrifying to think of coming out, not only _coming out_ but coming out as them. Facing head-on all of Ryan's fears and -- if he's being honest -- his own, too.

He kind of can't fucking wait.

He ends up in the music room, even though he knows all they brought into it were notebooks and guitars, all of which have been long since packed safely away in the backseat. It still feels empty as all hell, and Brendon wonders what the room will do without them, if it'll be lonely; what the sunlight will shine in upon, if not them. It's ego, maybe, but too much has happened in the room for him not to feel like he's part of it.

He trails his fingers over the piano keys, teasing a brief flourish from the higher octaves, before gently closing the lid.

Standing in the empty expanse of the living room, devoid of their yoga mats and DVDs and game controllers and stray articles of clothing and empty bowls and beer bottles, he can almost see them in the space, like he's watching as an outsider -- watching as Ryan wraps around him, holding him up; watching himself surrender, trusting Ryan with his body and soul and never looking back.

Outside, a car door closes, and he turns around, peering out the window. Ryan's walking around the car, stuffing a few final items into the Tetris-packed trunk as he swings the remaining doors shut. Brendon pads over to the foyer, snatches up his wallet and takes one last look around the space before heading outside, locking the door carefully behind him.

Ryan reaches up, pulls the trunk closed and turns around, leaning back against it and smiling when he sees Brendon.

Brendon smiles back. "Ready to go home?"

Slowly, Ryan shakes his head, pushing himself off the back of the car and walking forward until they're face to face, chest to chest.

"I am home."

The knot in Brendon's stomach rises into his chest and melts into warmth and he leans in, eyes closed as Ryan meets him for the kiss. It's brief, uneventful and chaste, but it's everything.

Ryan joins their hands as they separate, and Brendon feels the jingle of his own keys against his palm as Ryan presses them into his hand.

He grins, quirking an eyebrow. "You're letting me drive?"

Ryan smirks and shrugs.

Brendon's fingers close around the metal, but he keeps contact with Ryan's palm, skin to skin. "Do you trust me?"

Eyes locked, Ryan's hand slowly drops, leaving the keys in Brendon's grasp before he walks backward to the passenger side, fingers closing around the handle until Brendon presses down on the controller, unlocking the door.

Ryan pulls it open and smiles.

 

 

  
**_fin._ **

 

_____________________________________________________

 

...Well, almost. Behold the grand finale, the official PCCF trailer courtesy of [](http://redorchids.livejournal.com/profile)[**redorchids**](http://redorchids.livejournal.com/).  
(Definitely click the "HQ"; it's worth it.)

<http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nCL-aLp8KuM>

If you missed the in-text links, the YouTube/WSB screenshots can be found [here](http://img.photobucket.com/albums/v369/Behindthec/youtubebohemianrhapsody2.png) and [here](http://img.photobucket.com/albums/v369/Behindthec/Picture1-7.png). I will proudly take credit for those: a morning at work well ~~wasted~~ spent in Publisher and Paint. Also, if you're curious, a very vague approximation of the cabin floorplan can be found [here](http://img.photobucket.com/albums/v369/Behindthec/cabinfail.jpg) \-- what, okay, I was bored and Red had some logistical questions. :P

Be sure to check out the [Director's Cut](http://redorchids.livejournal.com/65092.html), including deleted/alternate/AU scenes and a recording of Brendon's song.

And finally, visit the [PCCF Q&A post](http://behindthec.livejournal.com/102077.html) for any questions, however random, you may have about the fic.

Thanks for the ride, guys. ♥


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